A boy of about ten years entered the tiled court, bowing respectfully. Euberacon passed the boy the horse’s reins. With the competence of an experienced stablehand the boy caught hold of the animal’s bridle to hold it steady as Euberacon dismounted and retrieved the saddlebags that held his trophies. If one looked steadily into the boy’s eyes, it could be seen that he stared too much and did not blink quite enough. In his mind, the boy was still fostering in the hall of one of the island’s many petty kings. He remained unaware that his foster mother had sold him for a potion to rekindle her straying husband’s lust for her.
The few servants that kept Euberacon’s house had been purchased for similar prices. The fact that he needed to descend to such barter for his most basic needs galled him, but he had schooled himself long ago to patience. Each day brought him closer to his victory.
A bird squawked overhead. A raven perched on the windowsill of the north-west tower. More of them circled over head. Kerra had returned, then. Good. He needed to speak with her about recent developments.
But first, he needed to confirm his suspicions.
The south-east tower was Euberacon’s alone. No mortal servant, however completely enchanted, entered here. On the first floor was his sleeping chamber, its door bolted and barred with oak, ash and magic. The chamber, immediately beneath the gilded roof held a small menagerie of caged animals: doves, ermine, foxes, crows, wrens, and their like. These he fed and cared for with his own hands, ensuring their health and wellbeing so they would be ready when he had need of them.
But at this time, no such sacrifice was needed. He climbed the spiralling stairs only to the second storey. Light and cold filtered in through the arrow slits in the outer walls. Warmth was the one thing with which he could not supply his dwelling. It was the constant reminder of where he truly was.
A silver key hung on a chain around his neck. Euberacon unlocked the ash-wood door in front of him and entered his private workroom.
The scents of herbs and rare essences overlaid the less savoury odours of old blood and decay. Euberacon uncovered the brass brazier by the door and dropped fuel onto the smouldering coals so that the flames sprang up, providing a flickering light. Despite this, the room remained densely shadowed. Bags and bundles hung from the ceiling. The shelves were crowded with mortars, alembics, braisers, along with sieves and bowls made from all manner of materials, both precious and base.
What the room did not contain was books. He had not been able to bring a single tome or scroll when he fled Theodora’s assassins, and those that pretended to practise the high arts in this barbaric land did not see far enough ahead to write their learning down.
Euberacon had heard rumours that Merlin had several mystical volumes in his private chamber in Camelot, but no art or artifice had enabled him to see into that cunning man’s sanctum. The extent of Merlin’s knowledge remained his own secret.
Perhaps then, they are not so foolish, Euberacon admitted grudgingly to himself. But they are yet not wise enough.
First, he dealt with the trophies of his night’s work, plunging them into pots of honey, setting aside the hand which needed to be cured in spirits of wine. When he was finished, he washed his own hands in a silver basin, letting the action calm and clear his mind even as it purified his flesh. He discarded his gory robe, covering himself with the clean garments he kept in a cedar chest for when they were needed. The rich black cloth was trimmed and lined with fur and did some good to keep out the eternal chill.
From under a square of white linen, the sorcerer drew a silvery mirror one palm in breadth. He had made it from the sword of a man who had come too close to his refuge. He had heated and pounded and polished the artefact, working the over-bold wanderer’s blood into the reshaped steel. Around its rim, as prescribed, he had engraved the names of power – Latranoy, Iszarin, Bicol, Danmals, and the rest, with the name of Floron at the apex.
He laid the mirror on the smallest of his wooden tables and then turned to his work benches. In a clay bowl he mixed together equal proportions of milk, honey and wine, whisking them together with a brush of fine twigs. He shook the brush over the mirror in the manner of a priest anointing a body with holy waters.
‘Bismille arathe mem lismissa gassim gisim galisim,’ he intoned. ‘Darrgosim samaiaosim ralim ausini taxarim zaloimi hyacabanoy illete.’
The chant wound on, snaking through the room, reaching out to the shadows, thickening them, bringing them weight and substance, like cobwebs, like nightmares. It called, it compelled, it bound. It wound itself around the mirror, found its substance sympathetic to its purpose and sank within it, infusing and transforming it, making what had been a tool of reflection into a window onto other worlds. The steel of it misted over, swirling, first white, then red, then black.
Judging the time was right, Euberacon hardened his voice. ‘Floron,’ he spoke the demon’s name as a command. ‘Respond quickly in the mirror, as you are accustomed to appear.’
The black mist slowly took shape, forming itself into the likeness of a man riding a black stallion and carrying a black spear three ells long beneath his arm. The man had no face, not even eyes, only shadow, but all the same, Euberacon felt the figure’s burning hatred of him and of the power he wielded over it.
Euberacon smiled. ‘I would see the future days,’ he said. ‘Show me what is to come for the ones who dwell secure in Camelot.’
The black horse stamped one hoof soundlessly, and the demon lost its coherent shape, once again becoming the swirling mist, of shadow. Slowly, that mist took on new form and fresh colour, and Euberacon looked deep, and the future became clear.
He saw the great hall of Camelot broken and in flames. He saw the famed cadre of the Round Table milling uselessly, their ranks broken for want of a leader. He saw Kerra laughing in the ruins, her ravens swirling overhead in a great and noisome cloud. He saw himself on the prow of a boat laden with treasure, standing beside the Saxon leaders. The ship’s oars were out, and the barbarians rowed across the ocean, ready to gather more of their fellows, and he was ready with magic and sword to reclaim Constantinople, to set his man upon the throne and himself to the true rule. He saw fresh fires, but these rose from the Hippodrome and the great cathedral.
Last he saw a pair of black, black eyes staring at him, woman’s eyes, witch’s eyes, seeking the past as he sought the future, and for a moment Euberacon’s nerve quailed. He felt the power within that gaze. This, surely, was the fabled Theodora, looking hard for him.
She would not find him, not until it was too late.
The final vision faded, leaving only the reflection of his face. To his displeasure, Euberacon saw the sheen of sweat on his brow. He wiped it away. He should be well beyond such displays of emotion. What had he to fear from a woman’s eyes? He had seen the future, and it was his.
Euberacon’s lips twitched as a quiet admonition passed through his mind. Those who scried the future did well if they understood that what they saw was only one of many possibilities, and that nothing came to pass without effort and vigilance. But the possibility of his triumph was there, and it was stronger and more clear than it had been when last he sought the vision out. Euberacon’s mouth bent into a smile of satisfaction as he once again covered his mirror and set it back in its place.
Now, to speak with Kerra.
Kerra watched from her solarium as Euberacon crossed the tiled court, the sleeves of his black robe flapping behind him in a poor but vigorous imitation of wings.
Kerra had always seen him more as a crow than as a raven. He did not hunt. He let others fight the battle while he watched. He sought no allegiance from those who were not strictly of his kind. Instead, he held his peace until all others believed the best was finished with, and then he stole what he wanted. He was cunning, yes, but not so wise as he fancied himself.
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