No, you go first. My escape was pretty ordinary, but I can see you’ve had a rare old time of it.
“Well, yes. I was chased across the moors by troops from Elktor, but I gave ‘em the slip under my cover spell… But how were you able to find me? I’ve still got the spell in place.“
This is a dream, friend. Everything’s possible in a dream! What happened next, after you evaded pursuit?
“Things went well enough until I reached this place and started looking about for a path into the mountains, or at least a place to rest where scryers wouldn’t spot my mule when I dismounted. There’s a deep cleft yonder where the rock-face rises up. It looked ideal, so I lit a fagot and started inside to look it over. Then I caught a whiff of this vile stench, and saw the bones. But by then it was after me, roaring and slavering. Whether it smelled me or just saw through the spell, I don’t know. I thought I was a dead man for sure, but it stopped to savage the mule I’d left hobbled. I got away down the slope, slipping and sliding and blubbering like a baby. I fell and smashed my head and bled from the scalp like a stuck pig, but the wounds aren’t serious. I hid for a while, then came out to take a bit of meat from the mule’s carcass. By then I was starving.”
Booger me! What a tale. You’ve had rotten luck, Brother. But thanks be to God and Saint Zeth you’re all right… Which sigils did you take with you from the hut?
“Three of the four important ones we played the game with. They were all I had time to gather up. The doorway sigil must have been buried by the strange ash that lay all over the floor.”
Felmar smote his own forehead, and his face was twisted in an expression of frustration. You know, I can’t remember what the other three stones look like! My mind’s gone blank from all the travails I’ve suffered. Will you just describe the things?
Scarth fumbled with his belt-wallet. “I’ll show you—”
No, don’t go to the bother. Just tell me what they look like.
Scarth frowned. “Well, there’s the ring I thought might be a Weather-maker, and the icicle or carrot or whatever it is.”
Yes, its name is Ice-Master. And the third?
“A little wand with phases of the moon carved on it.”
Felmar’s eyes went wide with shock and he gave a loud gasp. Just a simple rod, with a hole at one end? And phases of the moon, you say?
“Yes… Look, let me take them out. You can see for yourself.” He opened his pouch and proffered the sigils in the palm of his hand.
But Felmar had closed his eyes, as if in ecstatic contemplation.
A Destroyer! That’s what it is. One of the greatest of the Great Stones. The Lights slew my poor mother for using it contrary to their wishes. But if it were neutralized by the Potency, there’d be no danger at all to the user.
“Pel, I don’t know what you’re saying. What’s a Destroyer?”
We’ll have to keep the sigils safe until I can come for them. I don’t suppose the book matters anymore, since I don’t need it for the activation, but we might as well include that, too. Take one of the empty saddlebags from the dead mule, old friend. Put the book and the stones inside, strap it up tightly, and follow me.
It was only a dream, so Scarth obeyed without argument. He was curious to see what would happen next. Felmar beckoned him to follow, circled around the little fire and the dead animal, then set out uphill, straight for the tall opening in the rock. He peered into the fissure, then put a finger to his lips.
Come on. But be very, very quiet! There’s a nice dry ledge, head high on the right and only a couple of ells from the entrance. Put the saddlebag there.
Scarth held back. “Be careful! What if it wakes up and smells us? It’s a monstrous thing! Nearly six feet tall at the shoulder!”
Listen. I’ve found a fine place for us to hide out. Good food and drink, comfortable beds for as long as we want them, and no one can scry us there. You’ll love it. But we don’t dare bring the sigils and book. We’ve got to put them in a safe place and pick them up later, when the hue and cry has died down. Understand?
“All right.”
Scarth could smell decaying flesh inside the den even before he entered. The bones underfoot and the rough rocky floor had smears of fresh blood. Alert for the slightest sound from the inky depths, he pushed past Felmar and set the leather bag on the high ledge. Felmar was right: this was a perfect place to hide it. No one who looked casually inside the hole would catch sight of the bag, and it was surely safe from scrying.
“That’s that.” He turned about, ready to leave—and saw that Felmar was gone. Quickly, he strode towards the fissure’s mouth and looked outside, but there was no trace of his friend.
Wake up. Both of you.
“Pel?…” He opened his eyes, felt his knees buckling, caught his breath in stark terror at the strange hooting snuffle that came from the darkness behind him. Something stepped on a dry bone and crushed it. He heard a low growl, risked a fearful glance, and saw beady black eyes and lips drawn back in a snarl from enormous ivory teeth.
“It’s a dream!” Scarth Saltbeck screamed at the top of his lungs. But he had been sleepwalking…
He stumbled down the slope, the giant brown bear caught him easily before he reached the shelter of the tall rocks, and dragged him back to its den.
The exhausted men-at-arms, the knights, the windvoices, and their dauntless leader Lord Olvan straggled back down the mountain path even before daylight had begun to fade, intending to make a safe camp on the far side of the great rockfall, where they’d left their mounts and supplies before pursuing their quarry on foot.
Kilian and his companions watched the retreat through the spell of couverture disguising the entrance to their cave. When the last of the hunters had disappeared, he extinguished the magic.
“They’ll be back tomorrow,” Garon said. “There are game trails up there going in different directions. The windsearchers can’t have explored them all. Do you want to move on? The weather’s fine, there’ll be a nearly full moon tonight, and we’ve had a good rest. We might almost reach the divide by dawn tomorrow. I don’t think they’d dare follow us much further than that. These are castle garrison troops, not crack mountaineers like the ones on duty at Beorbrook Hold. A lot of them are looking over their shoulders, afraid that demons might be stalking them.”
Kilian thought about it. “I must try to windspeak Felmar and Scarth again. There’s a useful high point on the ridge above the cave. I can reach it if I go up this ravine. Let me try to scry our friends from there. Should I fail in that, I’ll extinguish their cover spell and bespeak them. If I still have no luck, we’ll move on without them.”
Garon inclined his head. “As you wish, my lord. However, for your own safety, I insist on accompanying you on the climb up to the ridge.”
“Very well.”
The two of them left the cave together. Niavar and Cleaton came out to stretch their legs and relieve themselves.
“Wicked hike it was, getting here,” Niavar observed. “Maybe not so tiring for you, with your long legs, but I’m not keen to press on, I can tell you.”
“We’ll make young Garon carry you pickaback,” Cleaton said with an evil grin. “Give him less breath to talk down to us, the conceited gowk. Just because he’s highland-born, he thinks the sun shines from his bum.”
Niavar shrugged. “The lad knows we’d be helpless up here without him— and he’s right. Possess your soul in patience, Clete. When we’ve safely reached Somarus’s camp, it’ll be different. Lord Kilian won’t let a jumped-up high-lander lord it over two experienced administrators like you and me.”
They sat without speaking for a time. Then Cleaton said, “I think we made a great mistake not blasting Butterball to smuts back at the rockslide.”
“How so?”
“He won’t be content telling the king’s men about our failed ambush. Mark my words, Var, he’ll spill his guts of everything he knows. Felmar and Scarth and the treasure. Waringlow’s complicity. Even Kil
ian’s intention to ally with Beynor and Somarus.”
“Well, how bad can that be for us? Who cares if the new Father Abbas gets the chop? And the sigils and books were only a kind of bribe for Beynor, weren’t they? I mean, it’d be a fine thing for Kilian and the Mosslander to have a few active moonstone sigils at their command—but if the things are lost, our master won’t give up on his great scheme. He’ll change tactics, that’s all. He implied that Beynor has a plan to put Somarus on the throne of Didion sooner rather than later. All kinds of interesting opportunities might present themselves to clever magickers if a hothead king reigns in the barbarous northland.”
Cleaton gave a gloomy grunt. “Interesting. A nice word. I suppose we’re talking war with the Sovereignty.”
“Wars provide interesting opportunities, too,” said Niavar.
They fell silent again, then by mutual consent unrolled the blankets of their bedrolls, intending to catch a few winks of sleep before Kilian and Garon returned.
“So you think both Felmar and Scarth are dead, my lord?” Garon asked. “And the treasure’s gone?”
Kilian wiped perspiration from his brow. He sat on the summit of a crag, waiting for his heart to slow after the strenuous effort needed for the generalized call on the wind. His windsearch of the desolate border region where the moor met the mountains had eventually revealed the mutilated body of a mule and a bloody trail leading to an animal den. A man’s boot and a dead campfire with uncooked pieces of meat on a stick were the only other clues.
There had been no need for him to obliterate the cover spell shielding Fel-mar and Scarth. It no longer existed anywhere within the range of his windtalent. His attempt to bespeak the Brothers using their private password had failed. So had the only remaining option, an open windcall that might have been perceived by anyone. All he had done was call the men’s names. The timbre of his windspeech was sufficient to convey the urgency of his cry.
But there had been no answer.
“Yes, I believe they are dead,” Kilian replied. “And what you have so blithely referred to as ‘the treasure’ is lost to us. It’s a severe disappointment but by no means an insurmountable disaster. Other magical resources are available to me—and to those who are loyal to me—in Didion.”
“I’m happy to hear it, my lord. Shall we go back to the others? If we’re to set out again tonight, we won’t want to waste time.”
Going down the steep ridge was harder than the ascent. But even as Kilian concentrated on placing his hands and feet as Garon directed, a part of his mind was occupied by more urgent thoughts. He’d spoken confidently to the young Brother, minimizing the effect of the trove’s loss on their future. But the reality of the situation was more ominous—especially as it pertained to Kilian’s alliance with Beynor. The Mossland sorcerer cared only about the Trove of Darasilo. Once he learned that the large cache of moonstones had been lost, he was bound to view Kilian as an ally of questionable value.
It was even possible that Beynor already knew about the fate of Felmar, Scarth, and the trove. Why else would he have held off bespeaking Kilian in his dreams? Beynor’s tremendous natural talent might have been able to pierce the new cover spell, in which case he had probably windwatched the lot of them ever since he arrived on High Blenholme Island.
I may be in serious trouble, the alchymist thought. However, there was a small ray of hope… or perhaps even two rays!
Firstly, Beynor still lay under the Lights’ curse, which prevented him from utilizing sigil magic. Nevertheless he coveted his sister’s stones and might also have designs on stones possessed by the Salka. Perhaps he might be foolish enough to think he could use Kilian as a sigil-wielding deputy, as he had once used the wizard-assassin Iscannon.
The second hopeful possibility lay in the other principal player in their Didionite adventure. Prince Somarus Mallburn was a mature warrior who was justifiably wary of Beynor. He had been present at the young Conjure-King’s unforgettably calamitous coronation, where Ullanoth had made her brother the laughingstock of the entire island. The prince would also remember Beynor’s magical failures that had culminated in Conrig’s victory over Didion at sea. So wouldn’t the new King of Didion welcome an adviser who was intimately acquainted with the minds of both Beynor and Conrig? The gold intended as a bribe for Somarus was gone, alas, left behind with his horse— except for the small amount Kilian had been able to secrete about his person. But he still had his wits and his talent. They’d have to serve.
I must get to Somarus before Beynor does! Kilian said to himself. He wondered where the prince was, right at this very minute. Beynor must have told him to be ready to come out of hiding immediately upon the assassination of his brother. Would Somarus be rash enough to lurk about the vicinity of Boarsden, hoping to observe the deed? And if he were hiding there with an entourage, might not one of his men be a windvoice who’d respond to a general hail?
“Watch your foot, my lord!” Garon exclaimed. “That rock’s unstable. Use the one to the right instead. Please pay closer attention to my instructions. A fall from here could result in serious injury.”
Kilian hastened to obey. “I’m sorry, my boy. My mind was wandering. I won’t let it happen again.”
When the discouraging news came from Lord Elktor’s adepts that evening, and it seemed likely that Kilian had made good his escape into the high country, Snudge knew he could no longer postpone his long-delayed personal report to the king. He bespoke Vra-Sulkorig, asking if Lord Stergos was strong enough to receive and transmit wind-messages.
The Keeper of Arcana replied with understandable coolness.
The Royal Alchymist may be able to hear you, Sir Deveron, but it would still tax him to bespeak you over such a long distance. I fear you II have to make do with my own humble talents.
“Oh, come off it, man.” Snudge was too downhearted to be bothered with hurt feelings. “I need his advice on a personal matter, that’s all. It can wait… Is His Grace there with you?”
Yes. We’ve been waiting to hear from you for a night and a day, here in the sitting room of the Royal Alchymist’s new apartment. The High King believed you would wish to consult immediately with Lord Stergos concerning the safeguarding of the recovered trove, so he wished to stay close to his brother. He’s been conducting all his business from here. Please wait while he finishes issuing instructions to the Lord Treasurer.
“Feribor Blackhorse?” Snudge was taken aback. “Well, well! Nothing to do with my mission, I trust.”
His Grace will discuss the matter with you if he sees fit. Please wait.
Snudge relaxed in the padded chair that sat before the cold fireplace in the chamber he shared with Gavlok. The other knight was elsewhere in Elktor Castle, making arrangements for their departure on the morrow, should the High King approve it. Gavlok had forgiven Snudge for not taking him on the hunt for Scarth, but the squires Valdos and Wiltorig were still nursing their wounded pride.
Sir Deveron? If you please, I shall now relay the High King’s words to you. His first remarks are full of colorful language expressing his resentment at your lack of courtesy. I leave them to your imagination. From here on, I give you his words verbatim: Have you recovered the Trove of Darasilo?
“Tell His Grace that its fate is still uncertain. However, both of the thieves are dead. Of this I am sure. Within another day or two, I hope to learn more about the trove. It certainly has not fallen into the hands of Kilian Blackhorse or any other evil person.”
The king is gratified to learn that, but justifiably impatient to know where the trove is, and why you’re unable to get your hands on it. He regrets that the thieves were not taken alive so that they could be questioned, then given their just deserts. How fares the hunt for Kilian?“
“Ollie Elktor’s forces chased him far up Roaring Gorge. They narrowly avoided a deadly trap the alchymist had planned. Their escape was due to the fortuitous capture of one of Kilian’s henchmen, a certain Raldo—the former Palace Novicemaster wh
o was called Butterball by some of the Brethren. This man was injured and his companions rather foolishly left him behind… and alive. He traded some very useful intelligence in return for clemency, which Count Elktor was glad to grant.“
His Grace says that Ollie has a futtering great nerve pardoning an enemy of the Crown, but under the circumstances he’ll not object. What did the fellow have to say?
“First, Kilian and his cohorts escaped Zeth Abbey through the good offices of Abbas Waringlow. This worthy hastened the demise of his predecessor so that he could coordinate the abbey’s windsearch efforts and ensure that Kilian and the two thieves were not found by any of the resident Brethren.”
The kings reply is lamentably obscene. What was Waringlow’s motive for committing treason?
“The oldest in the world: power. Kilian taught his friend a spell that subtly coerced the ruling council of the abbey so that they’d elect Waringlow as successor to old Noachil.”
His Grace notes that the new abbas will have a brief tenure. What other information did this Raldo convey?
“Kilian and Beynor of Moss are in league with Prince Somarus of Didion. Beynor is on High Blenholme, but I’m not certain where. He and Kilian are plotting to assassinate Honigalus and put Somarus on the throne in his place. Unfortunately, Kilian didn’t disclose details of the scheme to underlings such as Raldo. It may be proper to warn King Honigalus of the danger.”
The High King will take that under advisement. Anything further?
“Kilian and his cronies had their iron gammadions removed by Waringlow. I myself saw one of the discarded pendants on the boat they used in their escape. I’ll leave it to you to explain the ramifications of this to His Grace. The most crucial thing is, Kilian now has the potential ability to activate moonstone sigils and use them—while Beynor, who is under a curse, cannot.”
His Grace asks your opinion about the odds of capturing Kilian.