It came to him.
There was someone he could bespeak, someone who would—by the end of the day, if not before—have obtained a full description of the awful events that had taken place down in Gala. One who would probably also know whether those responsible for the conflagration had been identified, and how the hunt for them was progressing. The man he was minded to bespeak was by no means completely trustworthy, but neither was he a friend to the Sovereign of Blenholme. He’d probably tell the truth, as he knew it, especially if Beynor passed on useful information of his own in exchange.
All I need do is wait, he thought, until matters in the south have stabilized a bit, and Queen Risalla’s wizards have transmitted details of the disaster to their colleagues in Holt Mallburn.
The choppy waves had subsided a little, and Beynor finally dozed off in spite of himself. His dream was a familiar one—frightening to begin with, as the small boy found himself trapped on the broad flats of the Darkling River with the oncoming tide racing toward him. The dream turned even more terrifying when the red-eyed monsters appeared, surging up out of a deepwater channel to seize him while he screamed.
Then the dream became amazing and joyous as he realized that the fearsome creatures were rescuing him! The reclusive Salka of the Little Fen had for some reason taken pity on the doomed small human. In time they would befriend him, teach him their language, and open his mind to the world of the wind and the potential of the magical moonstones—
Beynor woke with a cry of pain. The speeding boat crashed and smacked over the waves with stunning violence, hurling him against the gunwale and dousing him with icy seawater. The pleasant dream was extinguished, leaving reality.
He began screaming furious curses at the amphibious brutes in the tow harnesses, not stopping until Ugusawnn, the Supreme Warrior, compelled his companions to slow down.
The two brown-robed Brother Caretakers who brought breakfast to the prisoners could hardly stop talking about the disaster, even though they seemed to know few details aside from the obvious: the entire cloister wing of Gala Palace was burning fiercely, and the Royal Alchymist, Lord Stergos, had been so badly hurt that physicians feared for his life.
“But how could a fire take hold and spread in a place housing so many wind adepts?” Kilian asked. “Surely their combined powers would have stopped the flames in their tracks.”
“It’s said the incendiary agent was tarnblaze.” The older of the caretakers spoke in a tone freighted with dread. “That stuff can’t be quenched by talent, and it gives off great heat. I didn’t talk to anyone at the palace myself, of course. My powers are too puny. But the Brother Cellarer was in the kitchen when we fetched your food, and he had windspeech with his opposite number down there, who said there were two great explosions inside the Alchymical Library. It had to be tarnblaze. And not simple firepots, either: steel bombshells!”
“How dreadful,” Kilian said. “I shall pray for Lord Stergos, of course, but the loss of all those precious books is also devastating.”
“Books!” the second caretaker piped up. “Nearly forgot, what with all the excitement.” He opened a lidded basket smaller than the ones that had held the food, took out several volumes and some candles, and began passing them through the door hoppers to the prisoners. When he came to Kilian’s cell he said, “Prior Waringlow selected this book for you special, my lord. He hopes it’ll help you pass the time. Just poke the candlewick through the wire mesh on this peep slot and I’ll get it burning for you.” Using a bit of straw, he transferred flame from the wall lantern.
“Please tell Father Prior that I’m grateful for his kindness,” Kilian said. His cronies also murmured thanks as the other caretaker lit their candles.
“Is there aught else you need, my lord?” The older Brother added sheepishly, “Save liberty, o’course.”
“We have no view of the outer world.” Kilian gave a sad sigh. “Tell me—is this Solstice Day sunny and bright?”
“A bit overcast. What we countryfolk call buttermilk sky. There might be rain before the midnight chime.”
“Ah. Thank you, Brother.”
“We’ll see you again at suppertime. Should be a fine meal. We’re roasting six pigs and four fatted calves in honor of the holiday.” He and his companion gathered up the empty baskets and left the dungeon.
“Rain!” Cleaton exclaimed. “Our prayers are answered.”
“So it would seem,” said Kilian. “But no more talk. Let’s eat our food before it gets any colder.”
The meal was an excellent one—bread rolls with a crock of honey-butter, boiled eggs, a cheese ramekin, and a squat jug of brown ale. But instead of following his own order, Kilian opened the book he had received and leafed through the pages. Almost immediately he found just what he expected.
Drawing the candle closer, he began to read the note from Prior Waringlow. When he finished he burned the bit of parchment, then ate with a hearty appetite.
The next time Beynor woke the sky was grey and the sea undulated with great slow rollers. He crawled out from under the dodger and saw the dark, hunched forms of the Salka surging through the water. Eight of them were linked to his boat and ten more functioned as outriders, leading the way towards a distant black peninsula with a tip like a gnarled finger pointing south. Beynor recognized the distinctive silhouette of Gribble Head. Beyond it was the entrance to Didion Bay, and at the bay’s end was the mouth of the River Malle, and King Honigalus’s capital city of Holt Mallburn.
His skin garments were sodden and slimy, so he took time to shed them and don dry things from one of the sacks. Then he took the makings of a meal from another. Just as he’d been forced to improvise clothing during his stay with the monsters, he had also developed his own food supply. The Salka had plenty of seafood, but they invariably ate it raw. By trial and error, Beynor learned to cook and smoke fish and other marine edibles. He eked out his diet with the starchy tubers of the reedmace, boiled or baked, and small quantities of berries he could glean from the tundra surrounding the citadel. For seasoning he had sea-salt and an onionlike arctic plant with red flowers that the Salka called cheev. His only beverages were water and various herbal teas. Beynor’s talent now heated up a flask of willow-wintergreen tisane, which not only alleviated his chill but also took away the worst of his aches and pains. He ate a slab of smoked salmon and some of the bland roots. Then he settled himself comfortably and prepared to bespeak Fring Bulegosset, the Archwizard of Didion.
First Beynor scried him—a hunched, fleshy man with pallid features, whose dark-lashed blue eyes had a frankly sensuous gleam. He wore an elegant robe of black brocade and a matching skullcap. As Beynor watched he moved about a small alchymical laboratory gathering stoppered phials and small boxes, which he then packed carefully into a compartmented leather traveling bag. No doubt he was getting ready to accompany the royal family on its progress upriver tomorrow.
Fring was Didion’s most powerful windtalent—which wasn’t saying much. That barbarian nation’s finest adepts were half-baked dabblers compared to the top conjurers of Moss or Tarn. Even Cathra’s Brothers of Zeth possessed more innate magical talent. But Fring was reasonably competent, and if rumors from Beynor’s confidants in Moss could be believed, the Arch-wizard was also a political malcontent who secretly favored Somarus, the rebel brother of the Didionite king.
It was high time Beynor and Fring became reacquainted.
“Archwizard! Respond to one who knew you some years ago, and now wishes to share certain valuable information.”
Who’s that? Good God—it’s the failed boy-king, Beynor of Moss!
“To be sure—but now I’m a man of one-and-twenty, and preparing to mend my somewhat battered fortunes. Do you recall the last time we were in contact? You and Honigalus were aboard the flagship of Didion’s war-fleet, sailing south to attack Cathra while Conrig crept in through your back door and sacked Holt Mallburn.”
Of course I remember. You were Didion’s staunch ally then. H
onigalus bade you use your Weathermaker sigil to speed our vessels along to Cala Bay, while delaying the Tarnian mercenaries who were coming to the aid of Cathra. As I recall, you did a fine job of it. So fine that the huge storm you created sank the navies of Cathra and Didion without discrimination—to say nothing of the luckless Tarnians and a flock of Continental corsairs.
“It was my sister Ullanoth who unwittingly caused the storm, not I! And by good fortune, you survived. Less happily, so did Conrig… and Honigalus. If either man had perished, both our nations would have been spared vassalage.”
I am the loyal servant of the King of Didion. And of his liege lord, Conrig Wincantor.
“Of course you are. But how much happier we both would be if a stouter-hearted monarch ruled in Holt Mallburn. One who would never have signed the damned Edict of Sovereignty. You know who I mean! The information I wish to share with you concerns him. But if you aren’t interested—”
I’m very interested in anything that might pertain to a certain brave prince, who is always in my prayers.
“I thought as much. I’ve learned something that may redound greatly to his advantage. And that of his good friends! But before I speak of it—
You want something in return.
“A mere trifle. As it happens, I’m curious about the conflagration that took place earlier today at Cala Palace. My windsight is insufficiently powerful to oversee it directly, just as your own is, but I hoped that wizards in Queen Risalla’s entourage would have bespoken you concerning what happened. Were many people killed or injured?”
Why do you wish to know?
“I’ll be frank with you, Fring. I hate Conrig Wincantor with every fiber of my being. He conspired with my sister to rob me of my throne. If he’s suffered a great setback as a result of this disaster, I’ll rejoice. What damage was done? Is it known who was responsible?”
Rejoice then. My sister’s boy, who is an adept in service to Queen Risalla, told me that the library and the entire cloister wing of the palace were destroyed. The kings brother Stergos and some two dozen Zeth Brethren were injured. Six people were killed—including one man who may have helped start the fire.
“Who was he? Did he act alone?”
He was a Brother of Zeth, one Vitubio Bentland. It seems he and two other alchymical scholars came to the palace together, from Zeth Abbey, some months earlier. No one seems to know much about them yet. The two survivors have disappeared. There’s a royal warrant for their arrest and a great hue and cry throughout Cathra and Didion, with a sizable reward for their capture. And here’s a fascinating detail: the three used tarnblaze to blast open a secret crypt in the Royal Alchymist’s bedroom. By now, half the palace has seen the hole with their own eyes. It’s said that some treasure was stolen from there. No one in authority will admit that, but it would explain why the attack occurred in the first place. If someone merely wanted to kill Stergos, they could have found an easier way.
“And no one knows which way the surviving thieves went?”
If they were wise, they hopped on a fast boat and sailed away. Pictures of the pair are being circulated in all parts of Cathra. The roads leading from the capital are blocked, and every traveler is being questioned.
“I don’t suppose your informant transmitted images of the fugitives?”
Hah! Now we come to it. He did indeed, and I etched them on vellum with my talent… or reasons of my own. If you wish to oversee the portraits, produce the valuable information you said you would share with me.
“Very well: under no circumstances should you accompany Honigalus and his family on the royal barge upriver. Become diplomatically ill. Say you will travel overland to catch them up when you feel better. See that you don’t feel better until they approach Boarsden Castle, in six days.”
… What’s going to happen?
“Nothing you would enjoy participating in.”
But—but I should give warning! The royal children—
“The one you should alert is Prince Somarus. Roust him out of his lair in the Elderwold wilderness. Tell him to trim his beard, pare his fingernails, and clean up himself and his drabble-tailed band of followers, so he appears approximately regal when he’s unexpectedly summoned by Duke Boarsden and the other high lords of Didion to take up the crown.”
Almighty God! How can you know—
“I do know. Now show me the picture of the two thieves, and give me their names.”
Kilian heard the approaching footsteps long after the midnight bell. His three companions had long since surrendered to exhaustion and filled the dungeon with their snores, but he lay sleepless, turning over details of the plan endlessly in his mind, trying to anticipate potential obstacles and working out methods to overcome them.
The dim lantern-shine in the corridor outside his cell brightened. Rising, he waited at the iron door of his cell until a key grated in the lock and it swung wide open. Standing there was the tall figure of Vra-Waringlow, wearing the usual red robes of the Order. But the gammadion pendant hanging at his neck was not gold inlaid with onyx, as befitted the abbey’s second-ranking official. It was finely wrought platinum.
“So all went as we hoped!” Kilian said by way of greeting.
Waringlow’s impassive face showed the barest flicker of a smile. “Noachil was a tenacious old man, in spite of his many painful ailments. He entered into eternal peace shortly after a noon collation of shirred eggs with anchovies, one of his favorite dishes. It was an easy death. God grant such to all afflicted souls.”
Kilian nodded piously. “May I offer my felicitations upon your elevation, Father Abbas?”
“Thank you, my son. And I, in turn, must express my profound gratitude for your having taught me the subtle coercive spell that swayed the vote of the governing council in my favor. I thought it best to use the magic before your departure—not that I doubted the spell’s efficacy for a moment.”
“Vra-Garon has returned with the horses?”
“He awaits you in the ravine just outside the postern gate.” The new leader of the Mystic Order of Zeth lifted a tiny key. “Please turn around.”
Hands manipulated the lowered hood of Kilian’s robe. He heard a sharp click and his onerous neckchain, together with the iron gammadion it held, fell to the floor. He felt his heart leap with a sudden influx of arcane power. Now he was no longer dependent upon the chancy goodwill of Beynor, who had claimed—perhaps falsely—to know a spell that would free him of the iron.
“It may take a few days for you to regain the fullness of your natural abilities” the abbas said, “especially the ability to windspeak and scry over distance. I’ll do my utmost to confuse any pursuers until you are once again able to weave a spell of couverture.”
“You’ve been a staunch and loyal friend, Waringlow. In time, when the tyrant Conrig is overthrown and my own power is consolidated, be assured that I’ll reward you further.”
“No further recompense is necessary. Thanks to you, I have what I’ve always wanted.” He picked up the iron gammadion and handed it to Kilian. “You’d better dispose of this. It’s a pity that the totality of your magical endowment as an ordained Brother of Zeth cannot be restored to you. But as you know, new golden gammadions for you and your companions would render you perceptible to ordained windsearchers. Still, I have no doubt that you’ll find other ways to augment your sorcery.”
If you only knew! Kilian thought. But he only inclined his head.
Waringlow continued. “You should know that our Brother, Vitubio Bent-land, perished in the Gala disaster. Felmar and Scarth are suspected of starting the fire. Interestingly enough, they are reported to have stolen certain items belonging to the Royal Alchymist, but no description of the things has been circulated. As yet, the authorities seem to have no notion as to the whereabouts of the fugitives. They are presumed to have discarded their own golden gammadions early on.”
After Waringlow opened the other three cells, Kilian roused his associates with sharp commands, t
hen stood by while their iron pendants were also removed. He ordered them to sink the things in the deepest part of Elk Lake when they embarked the next day.
“Vra-Garon will be blamed for engineering your escape,” Waringlow observed. “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust that young fellow overmuch in a tight situation. Loyalty is hardly his strongest virtue.”
Kilian nodded. “I know the strengths and weaknesses of all my men well enough.”
“It’s time to go. Link arms and come up behind me very closely, two by two.”
They did as he bade them. The abbas lifted his hand and pronounced an incantation, and the former prisoners vanished from sight.
“Now follow me as silently as you can, and you’ll soon be free. The night’s a rather nasty one, I fear, with both wind and heavy rain.”
“Good,” said one of the invisible men.
The new Father Abbas lifted his lantern and headed for the flight of stairs, chuckling.
Chapter Eight
Ullanoth, conjure-Queen of Moss, slept for nearly thirty-six hours, paying her enormous pain-debt during slumber, as it had to be paid. When she could endure it no more she broke away and awoke on the morning of the day after Solstice. It was only with difficulty that she forced herself to leave her bed. The latest act of Sending had left her with almost no physical energy.
I should have told Conrig to wait, she thought. There was no good reason why he needed to know the truth about Queen Risalla’s unborn babe immediately. He was driven only by impatience and his desire to remain in control of every situation that concerned his Sovereignty.
But he had begged so urgently for her help…
She summoned servants to help her dress. An attendant held a mirror up after her pale hair had been combed, and she sighed as she saw her face. She was only twenty-three years of age, but the reflection now seemed to be that of a woman almost ten years older, gaunt and ravaged, with circles like bruises about her abnormally sunken eyes and deep lines furrowing her brow.