‘Show me,’ the visitor commanded. He thought: More and more intriguing! Why are all these distinguished Cathrans breaking their journey here on the same day?
Accompanied by a house varlet who carried his saddlebags, the man who called himself Master Lund followed Lord Castlemont and the steward Crick to a chamber in the west tower of the fortress. It had glazed casement windows, a fireplace, thick Incayo carpets on the floor, a tester bed with down pillows and comforter, and its own private jakes.
‘It will do,’ Lund decided, then tipped the steward a silver mark and inclined his head politely to Castlemont’s owner. He ignored the varlet, who scuttled out after opening the window.
‘How long will you stay with us, messire?’ Crick inquired. ‘One night.’
‘There will be an evening meal for special guests in the great hall at the eighth hour,’ Shogadus said. ‘Or if you wish, a repast can be brought to you here.’
‘It will be my pleasure to join you at table, my lord. Thank you for all your courtesy.’
Beynor locked the door when the others were gone, opened one of his bags, and took out a flask and a gilt cup. He had acquired his fine new mount, several changes of clothing, and accoutrements suited to his taste while passing through the great Cathran city of Beorbrook. As a sorcerer, he had no need to worry about money. It had been necessary for him to live modestly during the long years of searching for the lost sigils, so as not to attract unwelcome attention from officials in Elktor, but the time of deprivation was over. Things would be very different from now on.
He sipped mellow old apple brandy and watched the sun descend in the hazy, yellowish sky. The Salka had finally stopped their incessant wind-yammering at him. Stupid brutes – apparently too chickenhearted to use the Potency to abolish sigil-pain even after Kalawnn had managed to activate the Greatest Stone. Perhaps they feared the Lights would exact some terrible vengeance if they were deprived of their vile treats!
How much had their Master Shaman learned about the enigmatic sigil over the years? Obviously, Kalawnn was still ignorant of some of the stone’s secrets (as was Beynor himself). The sorcerer’s imperfect oversight of Kalawnn’s dreams had confirmed that years ago – along with the inconvenient fact that the Salka’s greatest shaman now kept the Potency secure inside his own gizzard. Kalawnn thought that it had bonded to him alone, just as other activated sigils did, and could be touched by no other person.
But Beynor knew that the stone had not bonded to the Salka Master Shaman. The Potency was unique in many ways. Once it had been brought to life, it was immortal and it bonded to no one; any person who knew its manner of working might handle and command it. The one who had made it over a thousand years earlier had intended it as a tool for good; but he had never activated the Stone of Stones, since he came to realize that it could just as readily be used for evil.
As Beynor was well aware, even though he’d long since given up hope of getting his hands on it.
He had been mildly curious when the Eminent Four began calling to him on the wind earlier in the day, but not so curious that he would have risked a reply. Kalawnn, for one, was adept enough to follow a bespoken windtrace back to its source. Beynor was not sure whether any Salka could scry him at long distance and read his lips. He doubted it. Still, it would be unwise to let them know his whereabouts until he found out what they were up to.
He had scried their army in Didion as soon as he crossed Great Pass and the overview of the Green Morass became more or less clear to his superlative windsight. The sight of the monsters’ precipitate retreat puzzled him even more than news of their earlier invasion had. Although the Salka were very effective water-fighters (being able to breathe through their skins as well as through lungs, they could remain submerged indefinitely), Beynor had not thought them capable of such a large-scale military action on land. Piddling border raids or coastal smash-and-grabs were more their style. Those had been going on sporadically for years.
But somehow the Salka had chosen an ideal strike route for this attack. It should have carried their force of nearly fifty thousand warriors straight into Didion’s heartland. Their abrupt halt and belated withdrawal left Beynor mystified. Would they go back to Moss now, or had they another plan in mind?
It was a matter he’d have to mull over. But first, a survey of the fortress’s inhabitants – and then an overview of the three Cathran princes, who had not yet arrived.
From his room, Beynor scried Castlemont for other adept practitioners he might need to beware of. He found two Didionite wizards of modest talent who were probably members of the viscount’s staff, and an elderly Brother of Zeth taking his ease in the inner ward’s walled herb garden in the company of two Cathran noblewomen. Reading their lips as they conversed, Beynor learned that the ladies were Countess Orvada Brackenfield, wife of Cathra’s powerful Lord Lieutenant, and her daughter Nyla. The Brother was their household alchymist Vra-Binon, who had accompanied the family to a secret rendezvous with Orrion Wincantor.
Interesting…
None of the magickers inside the fort seemed likely to be able to detect the windtraces of Beynor’s scrying, so he began to search the highroad between Castlemont and the pass for the cavalcade of the Cathran princes. He found them still more than an hour’s journey distant. Knowing little of the young royals, he spent some time watching them. His vision was mute (only a Subtle Loophole sigil, such as the one once owned by his sister Ullanoth, evinced an oversight with all sounds attending) and the faces of the royal youths were hidden for much of the time by their wide-brimmed hats, inhibiting lip-reading; nevertheless he was able to identify each prince and gain a slight understanding of their characters.
Prince Heritor Orrion was the most interesting. He had apparently suffered some wound to his right arm, which was heavily wrapped and held in a sling. His manner was one of feverish excitement and he kept urging his companions to hurry, even though their mounts were jaded and drooping after what obviously had been a long day’s ride.
I wonder why the Heritor is meeting the Brackenfield family on the sly? Beynor asked himself. The gossip in Elktor was that Orrion was to be betrothed to Princess Hyndry Mallburn, the widow of Duke Garal’s son. But the winsome Lady Nyla seemed to be in a state of twittery anticipation.
As Beynor considered the implications of this, the final hail of the Salka Eminences came faintly into his mind. He muttered an obscenity. So the monsters wanted a favor of him, did they? And nothing small, considering what they offered in return! From his own studies of the Salka archives, Beynor was virtually certain that the Potency would abolish the Lights’ curse on him; but the sigil had seemed hopelessly out of reach.
I can’t ignore them this time, he decided. I must take the risk of answering.
He spoke on the wind: ‘Hello again. If you have anything to say, be quick about it. I’m very busy.’
The precisely directed response came from Master Kalawnn, his old mentor.
Beynor, I greet you after long years of silence and hope you are in good health.
‘I am. Let’s not waste time in pleasantries.’
We presume you know about our recent military incursion into Didion.
‘I also know that your army is now fleeing like woodrats before wildfire and plunging headlong into the sea.’
All part of our strategy, dear friend. We withdraw from one position only to renew the attack even more fiercely in another.
‘Ah. I see…’
What you may not be aware of is that earlier in the year we sent an expedition to the Barren Lands, where we located one of the two lost Moon Crags that provide raw material for the manufacture of new sigils.
‘I know your warriors had a fight up there with the Grand Shaman of Tarn. He whipped your arses with his sorcery, and the crag was mostly pulverized