“I believe that our king’s own bravery and intelligence played a greater role in his triumph. That is why I remain his faithful servant. But the magic of the Beaconfolk also aided his cause, and so my conscience has been torn between loyalty to my liege lord and certain knowledge that sigils are evil and can’t help but ruin the souls of those who use them. Queen Ullanoth may do as she pleases with her own awful stones. But I faced a moral dilemma with my lesser one. I still don’t know if I’ve made the proper choice—but after thinking the matter over, I decided I would use Concealer again if it became absolutely necessary. I do this only because I’ve judged King Conrig’s cause to be worthy.”
“I understand.”
“On the Mallmouth Bridge mission, I didn’t tell my companions the true nature of Concealer: its link to the Beaconfolk. They knew only that it was a magical thing I’d taken from a Mosslander wizard. They were unaware that it could kill. They were also unaware that if I had died, its bond to me would have been severed—whereupon some foolish or wicked person might seize the inactive sigil with impunity and perhaps bring it to life again. There is a particular danger of this happening in Tarn, where we’re headed, because the shamans of that nation are both powerful and resentful of the Sovereignty. To prevent my sigil from falling into the wrong hands, I ask a boon of you. If I should perish on this mission, take Concealer from my body and smash it to dust. You’ll know it’s harmless if the pale inner glow disappears. But if I only seem to be dead, or am separated somehow from the sigil and it still glows, then beware. The thing will harm you or even kill you if you touch it. Scoop it up instead with a metal implement and bury it deep where no man will ever find it. Will you do this for me, Gavlok?”
“I will.”
“My friend, I thank you.”
Snudge frowned as an unpleasant notion came to mind. There was small chance that their party would stumble upon the two thieves carrying the Trove of Darasilo. He’d windsearched for them on the journey from Gala to Teme as the king had commanded him, finding nothing. He thought it probable that the pair were well hidden by some sort of strong magic and traveling nowhere near the Great North Road, which was alive with royal troops and reeves’ deputies who stopped and questioned anyone fitting the fugitives’ description. Nevertheless, Snudge decided Gavlok had to be warned, in case the unlikely should happen.
“There’s something else I must tell you. Concealer isn’t the only moonstone sigil in existence. Will you swear to similarly dispose of any others you may happen to find—whether they be alive or dead?”
“Of course I’ll swear, Deveron, if you really believe it’s necessary.”
“The notion of acquiring the powers of high sorcery doesn’t tempt you, then?”
“Great God, no!” The young knight was aghast. “It scares me stiff.”
Snudge released a long breath and slumped back in his chair. “You’re a fortunate man. Pronounce the solemn oath.”
After Gavlok did so, the two of them ate ravenously. They were finishing jam tarts and the last of the beer when there came a scratching at the chamber door.
“Enter!” said Gavlok.
The apprentice windvoice Vra-Mattis poked his tousled head in. His face glowed with excitement. “Sir Deveron, I’ve been bespoken by Vra-Sulkorig. It’s an important message for you from the High King.”
Snudge felt the food in his belly congeal into an indigestible lump. In his fatigue, and his anxiety at confiding in Gavlok, he’d forgotten that Conrig had promised to transmit his decision about seeking help from the Conjure-Queen and her Loophole.
Gavlok climbed to his feet. “I must visit the jakes anyhow. I hope the news is good.” He pushed past the little Brother and disappeared.
Snudge said, “Come in, Mat, and close the door. The beer’s gone, or I’d offer you some. Have a tart, if you wish. I hope you and the others ate well.”
Mattis shrugged off the irrelevancy. “The High King wishes to inform you that there is fresh word of Princess Maudrayne.”
“What!”
“A witch of Donorvale in Tarn bespoke a blanket windcall to the Brethren at Gala Palace. This person, whose name is Yavenis, is an unsavory character who peddles nostrums and spells to the lower orders in the Tarnian capital. Nevertheless, she claimed to have important information about the princess, which she said she’d reveal in exchange for a large reward. The king authorized payment through the Sovereignty’s ambassador in Donorvale, and Yavenis related the following tale, which she supposedly received from an outlaw shaman of Northkeep called Blind Bozuk.”
He recited an abbreviated version of Maudrayne’s escape from the sea-hag, her arrival at Northkeep Castle with her maid “and the maid’s small son,” and her subsequent abduction by Ansel Pikan.
“But this Blind Bozuk has no notion of where Ansel may have taken the princess and the others?” Snudge asked.
“Yavenis says he told her that he didn’t know. He may have lied. Bozuk is apparently a talented spell-weaver who cannot be controlled by Ansel, hence his designation as an outlaw. His windsearching ability is exceptionally keen even if his eyesight is not. He was obliged to use Yavenis to bespeak his message to Gala Palace, since he lacks the ability to converse across great distances. Thus the two magickers will split the reward. Yavenis suspects that Bozuk will hold back any further information he may have about the princess until he can be sure of receiving a larger reward that he can keep all for himself.”
“Hmph.” Snudge nodded with grudging respect. It was the sensible thing for the rogue to do.
“Yavenis threw in another piece of intelligence for free. High Sealord Sernin set sail from Donorvale in the wee hours of this morning, accompanied by a fleet of fifteen swift warships. He was said to be en route to Northkeep, which is ruled by Maudrayne’s brother. All of the windvoices in the vicinity of that castle save Bozuk have been bound to silence by Ansel Pikan. It’s possible that the Lord of Northkeep intends to meet Sernin at sea and discuss his sister’s visit with him. Vra-Sulkorig said you would understand the potentially flammable political repercussions of this.”
Snudge groaned. “God’s Blood! If only we had set out to Tarn by ship! It’ll be more than ten days before we can reach the Tarnian coast traveling overland. Vra-Sulkorig gave no order for us to turn back?”
“Nay. As a matter of fact, we are instructed to ride north with all speed this very night.”
“What’s that?” Snudge leapt to his feet, his face suffused with incredulous anger. “You silly knave! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Mattis was unruffled. “Because I was ordered to relate the other information first. Sulkorig said you must assimilate the news of Princess Maudrayne calmly, before being informed about Queen Ullanoth… and Lord Kilian.”
“Kilian?” Snudge was dumfounded. “What of him?”
“I’m ordered to tell you of the Conjure-Queen’s doings first. At the king’s request, she has used her sorcery to locate the fleeing fire-raisers, Scarth and Felmar. The two Brothers are traveling up the eastern shore of Elk Lake, probably having ridden north from Gala through Heathley and the Beech River valley with many changes of horse. The queen oversaw them in early evening, approaching a village called Pikeport. They were then disguised as royal dispatch riders and were screened by a spell of couverture such as the Conjure-Queen had never encountered before. Both the reeve of the lakeshore and Count Olvan Elktor sent out large search parties, but they found nothing. However, if the villains realized that pursuit was closing in, they’d likely change their appearance and go to ground.”
“But why hasn’t Queen Ullanoth kept them in sight, guiding the chase?” Snudge demanded.
“Because she is at the point of death. Whatever magic she used to find the miscreant pair took a frightful toll of her strength. Indeed, the doctors at Royal Fenguard are fighting to save her life.”
So Ullanoth had peeped through Subtle Loophole once too often! “But surely the Brethren at Zeth Abbey would also have been enlisted i
nto the search.”
“Vra-Sulkorig said they’ve had no success using windtalent. He suspects that the fugitives are shielded by an entirely new type of cover spell that defeats scrying. If this is true, and they have also discarded the golden gam-madions of their Order, it would explain why they’ve eluded all wind-searchers save the Conjure-Queen up until now. The High King says the matter now rests in your hands, Sir Deveron,” The apprentice eyed Snudge with a mixture of puzzlement and speculation. “Vra-Sulkorig had no notion what those curious words might mean, nor would King Conrig explain further.”
Snudge did not enlighten him, but instead rose from the table and gazed out of the solar window. It was nearly midnight and the sky had a carmine sunset glow that would linger for hours without fading. There was plenty of owl-light to enable them to press on, much as he shrank at the prospect. He was less sanguine than Conrig, however, about his own ability to windsearch the thieves. He’d exerted his talent heavily on the journey from Gala to Teme, and he was flagging like a foundering horse. And if the fugitives were indeed hiding under an impervious spell of couverture—
He said to Mat, “Tell me about Kilian Blackhorse.”
“He escaped from Zeth Abbey, either late last night or early in the morning, taking three fellow-traitors and a young alchymist named Vra-Garon Curtling along with him. The Brethren of the abbey have windsearched for them without success. The High King believes that Kilian intends to meet the two fire-raisers for some nefarious purpose.”
Nefarious indeed, Snudge thought. Especially if Kilian had already learned how to activate the Trove of Darasilo.
But if that calamity hadn’t happened, Snudge realized there was a small chance that he might yet outwit the bastards, given the fact that they would be unable to windwatch him as he pursued them! He had a few other tricks up his sleeve as well, as Conrig was well aware—although he’d hardly be able to utilize them while dead tired.
And then there was Concealer…
Aloud, Snudge said, “We must do our utmost to forestall a meeting between the thieves and Kilian. Fortunately, he and his fellow-traitors were completely stripped of all talent by the iron gammadion, so we need not fear them using sorcery against us. The thieves and this Vra-Garon are perhaps another matter. What was it you said earlier about discarding golden gammadions to foil windsearchers?”
Mattis held up the silver pendant that hung about his neck. “I’m only a novice, and my own gammadion is a mere symbol without magical power. But an ordained Brother of Zeth who wears the sacred pendant of gold gains significant arcane abilities in addition to whatever natural talent he was born with. Also, the gold makes him subject to the commands of his superiors in the Mystical Order. Among other things, this means that the superiors can easily scry Brothers who wear gold gammadions. Felmar, Scarth, and this fellow Garon would certainly have got rid of theirs. Keeping them—even for the powerful defensive magic the pendants confer—would have been much too dangerous.”
“So all we have to contend with are the natural talents of those three, plus whatever cover spell Felmar and Scarth have conjured.”
The novice hesitated. “I wouldn’t want you to think natural talents are negligible, sir. My own are rather meager, except for my ability to windspeak. Yet I’m able to hide myself from ordinary folk without much difficulty. I simply compel them not to notice me! The deception doesn’t always succeed— particularly in bright daylight, or when more than two or three people are looking.”
“Hmm.” Snudge pretended to think this over. He himself possessed the selfsame natural ability; but as Mattis had noted, it was a chancy thing—not to be compared to Concealer’s powerful and versatile spell of invisibility. “Well, there are six of us hunters, so we may hope that the quarry won’t escape us… Now go along and tell the others to prepare to ride out.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of doing so, sir. The mayor’s lackeys are readying fresh horses.”
“Good. We’ll head for Northway Castle and change mounts again there before cutting west to the lake. Bespeak the local lord’s windvoice and tell him we’ll need the strongest coursers he has, as well as a remount for each of us. It may be impossible to obtain sufficient numbers of good replacement animals in the villages along the lakeshore.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.” The apprentice withdrew and closed the door.
Snudge paced before the parlor window, striving to make sense of the tangled situation. If Kilian had already discovered a way to activate the sigils of the trove, and if Felmar and Scarth managed to reach him and hand over the moonstones, then the peace of the Sovereignty of Blenholme (and perhaps the rest of the known world) would come to an end in a burst of cataclysmic sorcery.
But if Kilian still lacked a vital part of the puzzle—if he and Beynor were still allied, with each one of them perhaps possessed of some essential element the other lacked—then hope remained, at least until the two conspirators linked up with one another.
Where might such a meeting take place? There was no sure way to tell, but it seemed unlikely to occur in the civilized regions of Cathra, where the Sovereignty was strongest and both Kilian and his thieving agents were marked men. The rugged mountains between Cathra and Didion were a far more attractive option—or even the barbarian northern nation itself, where vast tracts of land were little more than a howling wilderness.
Snudge called to mind a map of the Elk Lake area. If he were in the thieves’ place, reasonably safe from oversight but actively endangered by pursuers on land who might recognize him with ordinary vision, he’d take to the water. The big lake provided a perfect way to avoid roadblocks and close scrutiny by the law. In addition to the inland manors, which had vast flocks of sheep, there were many small villages along its eastern side, whose people earned a living selling freshwater fish and mussels, livestock, fruits, and vegetables to the large cities of Elktor and Beorbrook to the north. All of those little places were bound to have trade boats willing to carry passengers. There might even be regular longshore ferry service between the towns, since roads in the area were rather poor. The western side of the lake was more sparsely inhabited, being almost wholly pastoral, but Kilian’s party might well have embarked from a village called Elkhaven, which was only thirty leagues from Zeth Abbey.
Was it possible that the two groups of villains planned to meet somewhere at the head of the lake? Elktor was situated up there; but why risk using the city as a rendezvous when there were uninhabited mountains a dozen or so leagues further north, where the Elk River carved a great gorge before spilling into the lake?
Roaring Gorge, famed in Cathran legends as a haunt of demons…
Might there be a way over the mountains somewhere in there? Snudge had never heard of such a thing, but that meant nothing. The precipitous range that virtually bisected High Blenholme Island was so hostile and impenetrable that only three widely separated passes were used by ordinary travelers. The fugitives would be obliged to avoid the nearest and most heavily used, Great Pass, at all costs because it was so closely guarded. If they were bound for Didion, they’d have to find another route, one not too far from the lakehead, but so obscure it was unlikely to be on any map. The gorge seemed as likely a prospect as any.
And if the renegade Brothers were heading that way, where ordinary search parties would be reluctant to follow, then the Royal Intelligencer might well be the only one with a chance of finding them. King Conrig’s enigmatic message showed that he realized it, too.
Snudge was too muddle-headed from fatigue and beer to attempt using his wild talent tonight. He’d try tomorrow, when he and the others reached the shore road and they were presumably closer to the fugitives. It seemed strange that Kilian and his talent-stripped cronies had evaded windsearchers from Zeth Abbey, but perhaps the young alchymist Vra-Garon had learned how to weave the novel cover spell, just as the thieves had done.
Did Snudge and his men on horseback have any chance of reaching the gorge before boats did? He had
no idea, but he had to give it a try. If the weather stayed fair and there were no serious delays, they might get to Elktor in less than two days, with minimal time given to sleeping. Beyond there, the mountain track would be so bad that horses would do well just to maintain a fast walk. Still, the quarry would probably be riding no faster; they might even be going afoot.
If fortune smiles, Snudge thought, we might bag one lot or the other— Kilian or the thieves. It was a plan with long odds against its success, but all he could think of in his present weary state.
Sheer luck, having nothing to do with magic, was all that saved Felmar Nightcott and Scarth Saltbeck after they were found by Ullanoth’s Subtle Loophole.
Their dispatch-rider masquerade had enabled the pair to travel much faster than their pursuers expected, attesting to the excellence of Kilian’s advance planning. They commandeered new horses every forty leagues or so with a flourish of their counterfeit royal warrant, and by the eve of the day after Solstice they had reached a sizable village on Elk Lake called Pikeport, situated on a bay above the outflow of the Beech River. There they stopped at an inn to switch mounts once again and have supper.
Fortune favored them in that the local windvoice was a wretched draftsman, and the posters he drew carrying their alleged likenesses might have depicted half the men in town.
Their royal livery made the clientele at the White Waterlily standoffish, so they dined alone at a small table in a shadowy corner, while locals sat at the long trestle board and ate family-style from a kettle of fish stew, bowls of new peas, and plates of salad greens with radishes, vinegar, and bacon grease. More men, and a handful of women, were there to drink, whooping and laughing as the potboy kept stoups of ale and beer coming.
Then a trumpet sounded outside.
Nearly a score of the male patrons groaned and uttered obscenities. One of them said, “A whole day’s work draggin‘ for mussels, and now the fockity reeve musters us to posse afore we’ve even et!”
He and the other complainers gobbled what food they could and guzzled the last drops from their beakers before scrambling out the front door. Those left behind were either elderly, less than able-bodied, or not subject to posse duty that year.