She took up a small golden casket that had been on the table before her and brought it to Beynor. He opened it. Inside was a faintly shining moonstone shaped like a small octagonal plaque. He felt his heart contract as he recognized the sigil named Fortress.
Not his own Fortress, which still guarded his chambers: this one had to be Ullanoth’s.
“The stone is no longer in operation, since the place it was charged to protect is gone,” Zimroth said. “But it is alive, as you see, and so must be your sister, its owner. Would you have us begin to windsearch the city for her?”
“No,” said Beynor, in a voice barely audible.
Alive… He’d deluded himself after all, and his secret fear was now confirmed. She was alive, and certainly beyond his reach. Could she have taken Destroyer and the Unknown Potency with her?
Damn Ullanoth to the Ten Hells of Ice!
“She will have gone south with the Didionites.” He spoke more forthrightly. “No doubt she stowed away on one of their ships while concealed by a sigil. I must think about this very carefully. How many other people know about this Fortress stone of hers?”
“The foreman and his crew of slaves,” Zimroth said. “No others, I should think.”
“Kill them,” said the Conjure-King. His gaze took in the group of wizards. “And all of you keep silence about this until I decide whether or not to warn King Achardus and his sons that Ullanoth may be alive and traveling among them.”
Carrying the golden box with its perilous contents, he left the room, knowing what he would have to do with this sigil. If Ullanoth should discover that it was not destroyed, she could command it, even from a distance, and perhaps do him great harm. So the stone had to be abolished and then empowered to him. Immediately.
Coldlight Army, smite her! he raged inwardly. Another hideous ordeal, and this time not a relatively brief one—and all for the sake of a redundant stone that would not significantly increase his own might.
Who could tell what havoc Ulla might wreak in Didion, laying the groundwork for Prince Conrig’s invasion? He doubted that she would attempt to empower his own stolen Great Stones. The risk was too formidable. But she certainly owned a Concealer; her uncanny appearances and disappearances proved that. And he was virtually certain that she possessed a sigil that enabled her body to become subtle. How else to explain his sword passing through her like a ghost, or her escape from the silken ropes? And only a Beastbidder would have enabled her to create chaos at his coronation with the fitches, gulls, midges, and rats. How many other stones did she have, and what were their capabilities? There was no way to know… until she used them against him.
I must find a way to kill her, he told himself in desperation. I must, or my own plans for the future will be forfeit.
But he had no notion of how to do that, short of seeking the counsel of the Lights, a prospect that caused his soul to shrivel. So from that time on, without even realizing it, he began to hate himself as much as he hated his sister, for being young and afraid.
After departing from Swanwick at first light, the small force of Heart Companions and armigers had ridden steadily uphill all day and were now only a few hours away from Castle Vanguard. Vra-Stergos, riding with Conrig at the head of the party, did his best to scry the fog-swathed, dripping landscape ahead of them for villains lying in ambush, while Snudge, by order of the prince, brought up the rear and took a cautious windsight from time to time, making sure that no suspicious persons came up suddenly behind them. His labors were all but useless. The mists were so heavy that one could hardly see three ells, using either eye or talent. But the prince’s party was safe enough. No one traveled the road in such weather save a few peasants and other harmless persons, insubstantial ghosts in the murk who responded to Belamil’s regular calls of “Make way!” by drawing respectfully to the verge while the cavalcade of anonymous-looking armed men passed them by.
At the beginning of the journey, Snudge had been full of excitement and anticipation, like the other squires. But the unending clammy gloom of the last two days had lowered his spirits. With no observation of the passing scene to distract him while riding, he was bored. The other armigers were often able to converse among themselves; but he, relegated to the tail-end of the procession by his special duty, was mostly left on his own, jouncing through white blankness, occasionally calming his horse with his talent, silently bespeaking Stergos regularly to tell him that all was well, while the other armigers had no idea what he was doing.
Only one unusual thing happened to break the monotony, a sudden roaring blast of wind that came from nowhere and nearly blew him out of the saddle. But it was gone almost as soon as it arrived, amounting to nothing.
So Snudge brooded, thinking over his life thus far, his amazing good fortune and his narrow escapes from death, wondering what future his wild talent would bring him as he served his prince. He thought of many things… but most of all, he thought about the sigil hanging around his neck.
Snudge wanted to try it. Oh, how he wanted to try it!
He could not resist fingering the hard lump through his mail shirt and padded leather gambeson, lying against his chest, not painful at all but alive and warm inside its thin bag. A moonstone named Concealer, the most puissant tool imaginable for a Royal Intelligencer, was now his own. The Tarnian shaman had told him it would hurt any other person who dared touch it. In the small magical book, he had read that it was possible to “abolish” a sigil—detach it from its owner and render it inactive, so that it could be re-empowered and used by another. But the spell of abolition had been long and complex (to say nothing of incomprehensible to him), and apparently involved magic that was both painful and tedious. So no sorcerer, not even Princess Ullanoth, was going to take Concealer from him easily.
The urge to make use of it was so strong that Snudge was tempted almost beyond endurance. He rode apart in the fog that hid him from his companions, so who would notice if he vanished for a few minutes, horse and all?
He was tempted, but in the end he refrained because of Red Ansel’s words: I strongly advise you not to conjure Concealer except under the most grave circumstances. Even though the Lights don’t know your true name, there’s still a danger of their interfering…
Interfering! What did that ambiguous word mean? Was he vulnerable to Beaconfolk torture each time he made use of the sigil? That couldn’t be true. The little book hadn’t said so, even though it had contained an impressive list of cautions. Salka had made the moonstones and they’d evidently used them safely— during ancient times, at least. And one of the brutes he’d seen swimming in Cala Bay wore a living stone around its neck.
Beynor, in the dreams, had uttered dire warnings about Beaconfolk sorcery, but Beynor was a despicable liar who used sigils himself and even allowed his assistant to borrow one. His sister Ullanoth possessed them, too. Snudge knew now that he’d seen at least two living stones when he windwatched the princess in her tower, and Prince Conrig had said she owned others. No doubt she intended to use her sigils to regain control of her kingdom.
In his youthful innocence and frustration, Snudge asked himself why the Salka would have invented these magical tools in the first place, knowing that they were mortally perilous—but he knew the answer almost before he formulated the question:
For power.
People will risk a great deal for power—even their lives. And the greater the power one sought, the greater the risk one was willing to take.
Thinking about it, Snudge rode on, and came at last with others of the Prince Heritor’s company to Castle Vanguard.
The north-country lords and the Virago of Marley had faithfully fulfilled their Promises. Conrig felt his heart swell with joy as he, Duke Tanaby, Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook, and the other noble leaders inspected the mounted knights and thanes massed in serried ranks in the castle’s great outer ward. As the prince had commanded, each warrior was armored in a coat of mail and open helm, with steel greaves to guard the rider’s l
ower legs. Voluminous hooded cloaks of waxed leather in drab colors concealed most of the panoply of war; shields and battle-axes were hidden by covers, and the horses’ tack was unadorned.
“We have some two hundred mules and pack-ponies to carry our supplies,” Duke Tanaby said, “and thirty courser remounts. Mounted thanes will lead the sumpter beasts, positioned in the middle of the column, with companies of knights at the van and rear. You realize, of course, that we will have to ride single-file on the worst sections of the Breakneck track. My best scouts surveyed the route to the summit three days ago and found it relatively clear of landslides and obstructions. There are several torrents to ford, but this time of year they have not much water in them. Of course we know not what we’ll find on the Didion side of the range.”
Conrig nodded. “Our magical guides will doubtless be able to tell us about the condition of the track above Redfern Castle, and whether there are other outposts of the foe closer to the pass itself.”
“Where will we meet these guides?” asked Lady Zeandrise.
“At the very top of the pass,” Conrig said. “I understand there is a kind of heath or meadow where we may spend the night before moving down into enemy lands.”
“It’s mostly a boggy mess up there at the summit,” Count Ramscrest said, “But we haven’t had much rain this fall, so perhaps it’ll do. This fog is all very well for hiding our troop movements from the enemy, but it’s going to make dicey going on a steep trail. You lowlanders don’t have any notion how bad this route’s going to be. In some places, we’ll have to blindfold the horses. Heights and steep dropoffs tend to spook the more skittish nags, and they won’t fancy loose talus skidding under their hooves, either.”
Cloudfell, Catclaw, and Bogshaw, mountain dwellers like their overlord, Ramscrest, murmured their agreement.
“The mules and ponies should be fine, though,” Lord Catclaw said. “They’re bred for high-country travel.” He was a powerfully built man in the prime of life, handsome and dashing, with thick blond hair that curled freely below his shoulders. The other nobles joked about his flowing locks, but Tinnis Catclaw claimed that braided buns of one’s own hair made the best possible cushion for a war-helm.
Cloudfell, managing to look elegant even in the drab garb prescribed for the expedition, spoke languidly, as was his habit. “Perhaps we’d do better to scatter the ponies and mules amongst the steeds, once we reach the worst parts of the trail. That would help keep the horses calm.”
“Good idea,” said the earl marshal. He turned to Vanguard. “What kind of time can we expect to make, Tanaby?”
“Normally, in clear weather, the summit can be reached in about ten hours, riding a strong animal. With such a large army—and in the fog, of course—we’ll be lucky to get to the top in fourteen hours, even if we leave before sunup.”
“Must we spend the night at the pass?” Beorbrook’s lumpish son, Count Elktor, didn’t bother to hide his dissatisfaction.
“Oh, yes, my lord.” Tanaby Vanguard’s smile was ironic. “You may recall my comment at the council of war about a certain lack of comfort we might expect to endure on this adventure. Furthermore, there will be no fires—not even for cooking—-unless they can be kept tiny and smokeless. Even in fog, the scent of burning wood might travel far and alert the enemy to our presence. Of course, there’s almost no fuel in the summit heath except brush and dead bracken…”
“More likely,” said Viscount Skellhaven, with an evil grin, “the air up there will be so sodden we’ll be hard put to strike a light, even with tarnsticks. Oh, we’re in for a foul night, my lords—unless the Conjure-Princess sends us a pack of dancing nymphs to lift our spirits as well as guide us.”
“Does anyone else have a question?” Conrig asked, with some impatience. “We must dismiss the men, eat a hearty supper, and go early to bed if we intend to be off in the wee hours.”
The Virago of Marley spoke up. “I have one, Your Grace. At the council of war, you told us that if any of us distrusted the aspect of the uncanny guides provided by Princess Ullanoth, we would be free to turn back. Does this dispensation still apply?”
Conrig smiled at her. “I hardly expected hesitancy in so stout a heart as yours, my lady. At the council, you seemed charged with your usual valor.”
“I am responsible for the safety of my warriors,” she retorted, “and I reckon each of them dearer to me than the sons I never had. Leading them into a battle that may pit them against sorcery is not the duty of a prudent mother. Please answer the question, Your Grace.”
He inclined his head gravely. “I swear to you, Lady Zea—and to all of you, my lords—that so far as I know, we will fight only mortal men in Didion, not magic. The uncanny guides provided by Ullanoth will only show us the way through the mists, not fight at our sides. And, yes—if you mistrust them when we meet them, you may freely retreat. But I pray you’ll all stand fast at my side as we conquer King Achardus and his sons, and free Cathra from foreign menaces forever.”
The once prosperous port city of Holt Mallburn was in a lamentable state as a result of the famine. Its more wealthy inhabitants had long since fled to their manors in the countryside, leaving their townhomes in charge of servants and hired guards. But privation, the spread of disease, and violence born of the increasing desperation of the lower classes had caused numbers of these guardians to abandon their posts. Many of the fine city dwellings and business establishments had fallen prey to looters, or were used as shelter by beggars and outlaws who had formerly lived in the streets. The common townsfolk barricaded their dwellings and emerged as rarely as possible. Only a few enclaves remained completely secure, patrolled by the King’s Household Guard and well-fed private forces: the palace and the parkland surrounding it, the so-called Golden Precinct where the great merchant-lords lived, and Mallburn Quay, with its all-important deepwater docks, warehouses, and shipyards.
Princess Ullanoth, using Concealer and Interpenetrator, had wasted no time once she disembarked from the Didionite flagship. Taking with her a sack of food and a blanket roll, she quickly found shelter inside a deserted warehouse. Unlike the majority of the quayside structures, which were wooden, it was sturdily built of brick, the property of the city’s Guild of Winesellers. The place was mostly full of empty barrels and bottles, waiting for the day when trade in luxury items would resume; but its heavily shuttered offices had lamps, a stove with a supply of charcoal, and a few old cloaks left hanging on pegs that could be fashioned into a bed. There was even a cache of decent wine and spirits, doubtless hidden away by some of the clerks for their secret refreshment.
“Good enough,” she said to herself, smiling. She could find water tomorrow. There had to be a public fountain nearby. The Sending’s bathing experiment, unfortunately, had proved a failure.
When she had arranged her new quarters to her satisfaction, she took out the sigil named Subtle Loophole, put it to her eye, and began the onerous task of watching and listening.
For the first days of her vigil, she concentrated her efforts on the Didionites, passing the intelligence along to Conrig by windspeaking Stergos or Vra-Doman Carmorton, Vanguard’s irascible Chief Alchymist, as the prince had instructed her to do. It was necessary, Conrig said, that her continuing participation in the invasion be known and appreciated by the other nobles under his command, so they would support him when it came time to reward her.
She saw Somarus, the second son of Achardus, assemble a company of heavily armed knights and set out for Boarsden, the strongest inland fortress of the kingdom, where he intended to gather forces to defend against the expected invasion through Great Pass. Crown Prince Honigalus busied himself supervising the provisioning of the Royal Navy, but Ullanoth was unable to determine when he intended to set sail for the south. Perhaps, she told Stergos, Honigalus was awaiting some signal from his Continental allies before disembarking. Or vice versa, since she saw that the corsair fleets of Stippen and Foraile also remained in port. Cathra’s navy, on the cont
rary, had finally taken up defensive stations in Cala Bay, patrolling the area between Castle Intrepid and the Vigilant Isles. The Tarnian mercenaries still awaited the arrival of the grain ships, which had been slowed by adverse winds.
When she was not scrutinizing the activities of the nations, she watched her brother, and was both surprised and dismayed to discover that he was obviously engaged in the lengthy process of abolishing her Fortress sigil, even though she could not descry the stone itself. It had never occurred to her that Fortress might have survived the destruction of her tower. From her arcane studies, she knew that there were supposed to be spells for delaying or even countering abolition of a stolen sigil; but she had never seen such spells in the archives of the Glaumerie Guild, so there was nothing she could do to prevent Beynor from taking her Fortress for himself. Indeed, if the abolition process kept him distracted for some days, unable to interfere in Conrig’s invasion, then the loss of the moonstone would benefit her own cause in the end.
Scrying through Loophole was far more painful and exhausting than using any of her other sigils had been, and she could not bear to do it for longer than an hour or so at a time. When she left off her uncomfortable labors, she found herself taking refuge more and more in sleep, and she had to force herself to eat. High sorcery was obviously taking a greater physical toll on her than she had anticipated, and it worried her when she chanced to think about it. But for the most part she was too engrossed in the scrying—and too consumed with relief when she let herself stop—to be apprehensive about her health.
No one disturbed her in the secure warehouse. (She had banished the rats and mice early on with Beastbidder, and got rid of the spiders for good measure.) She left the place only to find water, more food, extra blankets against the increasing cold, and to use the clerk’s necessarium at the end of the loading dock. She always went invisible, and used Interpenetrator to go through the brick walls like a phantom.