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twenty-four

Leading the force of fifty knights on his ebony courser, Conrig thundered over the drawbridge of Castle Redfern as the gates swung wide. Like the other charging warriors, he howled "Cathra!" at the top of his lungs and swung the curved blade of his varg in deadly arcs. The slightly tipsy garrison, taken com­pletely by surprise when Snudge did his work invisibly in the gatehouse, had only begun to scramble for their weapons when the invading knights trampled them in a screaming mêlée, exulting in the first taste of battle. The active defenders were hacked down without mercy until a trumpet-like voice cried out: "We yield!"

Baron Maddick had appeared in the open entryway of the keep, sword in hand, transfixed by horror at the carnage in the bailey and the rampaging invaders on horseback. He cast down his blade and raised both hands, shouting again, "We yield! Redfern yields!" Six white-faced knights of the household, stand­ing behind him, also threw down their unbloodied swords and fell to their knees.

The prince wheeled his mount about and cried, "Cathra! Leave off ! Have done! They have surrendered." He rode up to the lord of the castle, who still stood on his feet. "I am Prince Heritor Conrig Wincantor, and I claim this fortress as the first prize of the Sovereignty of High Blenholme."

"I am Maddick Redfern, holder of the fief. We yield without condition. Will you grant mercy and allow us to tend our wounded?"

"I will indeed . . . On your honor, my lord: how many gates in your curtain wall?"

"Besides the main gate, only a small postern on the downstream end of the bailey near the kitchen shed, through which we cast refuse and slops." Conrig turned to Lords Catclaw and Cloudfell, who sat their horses close by. Both were grinning and splattered with gore. "Tinnis, have your men seal the postern shut and collect the weaponry. Wanstan, set a close guard at the draw-bridge and send off a messenger to inform our force of the victory. Have them advance with all speed." Then to Maddick: "Where are your wizards?"

The baron shrugged. "In their chambers, I suppose, squawking on the wind like rooks warning of a falcon's presence."

"Not so, Your Grace," a quiet young voice said. Snudge stepped out of the shadows of the stable annex. "I've seen them to their rest."

"You!" Maddick uttered a groan. "The lad with the lovely presents! But how in hell did you lift the portcullis and let down the bridge with six men on guard in the gatehouse? Even half-drunk from your gift, they should have been a match for you. How did such a young sprout overcome them?"

"How indeed?" murmured the prince.

But Snudge only smiled.

 

Much later, when the main body of the Cathran army was safely ensconced in the secured castle, Conrig sent for his intelligencer. Snudge found the prince walking the torchlit battlements above the drawbridge, watching as ten gangleshanked nags and two draft oxen with ribs as prominent as slats—the sole occupants of Redfern's stables—were led outside into the mists.

"You summoned me, Your Grace."

"There's something important to discuss. Have you spread word of Princess Ullanoth's secret departure, as I asked?"

"Yes, Your Grace. It wasn't possible for me to deny being here and assign the princess total responsibility for opening the castle. Too many of the defenders had already spread the tale of the lad with the booze-laden mule. But I gave the lady credit for silencing the windvoices and pretended she helped me subdue the men guarding the gate. Only Duke Tanaby knows that Ullanoth was never here. I had to tell him the truth this morning before he would give me the casks of spirits."

The prince grunted, turning away to gaze over the battlement. "Look down there."

The boy peered through one of the crenels. Cathran thanes were turning the scrawny animals loose into the gorge, where the foggy gloom was eerily illumi­nated by thousands of bobbing golden sparks. The oxen lowed and plodded off once the ropes were removed from their nose rings, but the castle's horses pawed and snorted and hung about the bridge nervously until given whacks on the rump, after which they trotted off to temporary freedom.

"We would have had to dispose of the enemy's mounts anyhow," the prince said somberly. "Can't have one of the resident knights galloping off and giving the alarm when we quit this place tomorrow. So I decided to give our uncanny guides a small treat. Can you hear them on the wind? My own talent is too feeble to distinguish more than a horrid faint piping sound that causes my flesh to creep.

Snudge heard only too well. "They say they're hungry, Your Grace. These mountains lack their natural prey, the night creatures of the fens, ponds, and ditches. And creating the fog has made them more ravenous than usual." He hes­itated. "Are you aware that our thanes have learned that Sir Ruabon was killed by the Small Lights?"

"The nobles and knights are attempting to calm the men's fears. All the same, tonight we'll shelter inside the keep except for those guarding our own stock—and they'll have bonfires and torches to discourage wandering spunkies. Stergos and Doman will alternate in keeping windwatch from the top of the tower as well. I presume there's no danger of enemy forces discovering that we're here?"

"No danger at all, Your Grace. I've thoroughly searched the two roads leading from this place and the mountain paths as well. No one is abroad this evening in the fog save the Small Lights."

Prince Conrig was silent for some time, watching the gyrating fuzzy glim­merings. Then: "Why did you disobey my order to kill Redfern's wizards, Snudge?"

The boy said coolly, "You gave no such order. You told me only to silence them, and that I did—with the bonus of rendering most of the rest of the garri­son pissy-eyed as well. Regular doses of liquor will keep the adepts incapable until their talent no longer threatens our invasion. Lord Stergos said he'd have his squire Gavlok see to it."

"I stand corrected," Conrig retorted, none too graciously. "But your soft heart will have to yield to mortal expediency very soon. Not long ago, Stergos attempted to bespeak the Lady Ullanoth. She did not reply, and we can only assume she's still very weak from having empowered Weathermaker and ban­ished the freeze. Now, our army is due to enter Mallburn Town during the wee hours of the day after tomorrow. By then we may hope that the princess will be recovered to a certain degree. Unfortunately for us, she will probably not have the strength to Send herself handily about, abetting our forces as she'd planned. Ster­gos believes, as I do, that she can't possibly perform both of the strategic tasks she originally set herself. She will have to choose between opening the gates at the Mallmouth Bridge and admitting us to the stronghold of Holt Mallburn Palace."

"I see." He did, too .. .

At that moment a stomach-wrenching shriek rang out from below, the sound of a horse maddened by terror. Conrig flinched. "Bazekoy's Bones, there goes the first of them." The cry was cut short, only to be followed by a drawn-out bovine bellow that culminated in a mournful gurgling tremolo. "We needn't stay here. Let's go inside the keep."

He led the way along the curtain wall parapet to the rickety wooden stairs that gave access to the crowded bailey. The Cathrans had compelled their prison­ers to gather much of the castle furniture to make fires upon which cauldrons of savory pottage were simmering. Other men in leg-fetters were demolishing the worksheds and other wooden structures inside the walls to make more fuel. The army's huge herd of horses, mules, and ponies was picketed closely but still filled the greater part of the ward. Thanes were seeing to the animals' feed and water, farriers were checking hooves, and here and there knights or their armigers gave personal attention to specially favored steeds.

After the fight, Snudge had found Primmie the mule in the castle stable, ensconced in a stall like some equine guest-of-honor, munching a small manger of fresh hay that was evidently the best the castle had to offer. The boy had groomed the big yellow brute fondly and secured proper oats for him once the sumpter ponies arrived.

"The Didionite prisoners seem unusually cheerful," Snudge observed, as he and the prince passed among a group nailing together improvised water troughs.

"Only fifteen of the castle's men-at-arms died in the skirmish, for all the blood, and none of the castle workers received a scratch. They've been subsisting here on dried fish and thin barley gruel. We fed them meat pottage and decent bread. If I asked it, every surviving Didionite warrior would probably pledge heartfelt allegiance to Cathra."

"And the baron and his household?"

"Sulking and not yet willing to take the oath of fealty. But our lenient treatment may predispose them to accept the Sovereignty later, as well as pass on tidings of my clemency to their peers. They'll have little enough choice. By the time we leave this place, there'll be neither food nor firewood left. We're feeding Redfern's barley stores to our own beasts. After we move on, the baron and his folk will have to abandon the castle and flee to the coast on foot. Thank God there are no women or children here."

The victorious Cathrans who were not on duty had taken over the great hall, where a roaring blaze at the center and replenished wall-cressets cheered and warmed the scene. Even if most of the food and drink on the trestle boards was cold, there was plenty of it.

The smallish high table was already filled by Catclaw and Cloudfell and their roistering knights, celebrating the abbreviated combat. Conrig and Snudge sat down on stools by the fire that had been hastily vacated when the prince approached.

Cloudfell's armiger came running from the table with a crock of steaming spiced wine. "Your Grace! My lord urges you and your squire to come sit with us."

"Nay, lad, we're fine right here. But search out Duke Tanaby and the earl marshal and bid them join us."

When the armiger dashed off, leaving the jug behind, Conrig spoke in a low voice to Snudge, who was filling both their cups. "As I understand it, your talent for hiding is based upon misdirecting observers rather than true invisibility. Furthermore, you once told me that the trick is impossible to manage if more than two or three persons are watching."

Snudge nodded.

"Yet you overcame six gatehouse guards, by Maddick's own admission. How?"

"I lifted their helms and whacked them on the head with a sock full of coins. It works fine, even through a chain mail hood."

"And not a single man saw you?" Disbelief curled the prince's lip.

Sighing, Snudge unbuttoned his shirt, drew forth the bagged moonstone sigil and let its pale green glow shine for an instant behind his cupped hand. "I was quite invisible. As you doubtless suspect by now, Iscannon's amulet, the one called Concealer, is fully empowered and bonded to me. The Tarnian shaman Red Ansel helped with the conjuring."

"God's Teeth!" the prince hissed. "You told me you threw it in the sea!"

"Ansel also cautioned me to use the sigil only under the most grave circumstances, lest my soul be endangered by the Beaconfolk. Your Grace, I debated long with myself before deciding not to tell you that Concealer was alive. You may recall that I beseeched you to trust me. Now, of course, you must know about the stone, since I presume you wish me to undertake another special mis­sion: opening the Mallmouth Bridge gate."

Conrig took a deep pull of wine, trying to calm his anger, trying to be fair to the youth who had just enabled the first victory of his campaign against Didion. But his pride was sorely wounded, and he felt that his ability to control this all-important enterprise had been flouted by a lowborn boy. "Never presume to deny me such knowledge again!" His whisper was grating and his face dark with suppressed anger. "I am your liege lord, and it's you who owe me trust!"

Snudge lowered his head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. I feared ..."

"You feared I would make frivolous use of your sigil! You played me false, Deveron Austrey. I did trust you, but you had no faith in me!"

The boy said nothing, nor did he raise his eyes. He pushed the bagged moon-stone into his shirt and fastened the buttons.

"I forgive you," Conrig said, in a voice that was still unsteady, wondering whether he spoke the truth. "Drink up. Here come Beorbrook and Vanguard, slowly pushing through the crowd. The duke already knows the truth about your talent. Now is the time for the earl marshal to know as well—and about the Concealer sigil. We four must decide how to effect the conquest of Holt Mallburn, now that we can no longer depend fully upon the assistance of Princess Ullanoth."

Snudge drained his cup and wiped his mouth with his cuff. He was confident again as he looked the prince in the eye. "Do you recall how you planned for me and the armigers to guard the Conjure-Princess during the battle for the city? I think you might use us to much better advantage in another way." He explained what he wanted to do, and what he would need.

"I can obtain a map of southern Didion for you easily enough," the prince said, frowning. "As for a diagram of the Malimouth Bridge machinery—such a thing must exist in the Cathra University library at Greenley. I'll have Stergos bespeak them, get a description, and sketch it for you . . . But you must find a way to open the bridge by yourself, Snudge, as you did here today at Castle Redfern. I refuse to let you reveal your wild talent to a mob of boys! They'd never be able to keep the secret. It would put paid to your future usefulness to me as an intelligencer."

"I won't need all of the armiger cohort, Your Grace, but I will require help. The bridge defenses are bound to be much more complex and difficult to over-come than those of this small castle. Concealer is capable of rendering invisible persons who stand close to me. I could take just three squires—"

Conrig broke in. "But must you tell them of your arcane abilities? The boys have no notion of the way sigil magic operates, that it can only serve the talented. Can't you say that the Concealer stone never lost its power when you took it from Iscannon?"

"I could do that," Snudge agreed, "and caution them to tell no one about it." And perhaps they would obey.

"If Vra-Doman or another Brother of Zeth should learn of your using the sigil, they would realize the truth. So would Ullanoth. And I think your life would not be worth a mouse turd if the Conjure-Princess should discover that you have the talent and own a Concealer."

"She can't windwatch me, so she'll only learn of my talent and possession of the stone if someone tells her. I can swear my fellow squires to secrecy, in your name. Then I'll conveniently `lose' the sigil during the battle. If the Brethren hear rumors of it later, their tender consciences will not oblige them to report the matter to Abbas Noachil. As for my alleged wild talent"—the boy shrugged—"how can it be proved, and why would loyal adepts wish to expose me?"

"Hmmm," said Conrig. "This could work. Let's put it to the duke and the earl marshal, to make certain we haven't overlooked some crucial flaw in the plan."

"They probably won't like it," Snudge predicted. "Laying such a great burden upon the shoulders of mere squires won't sit well with older warriors."

"Then let them come up with an alternative," said the prince, with a dis­missive flip of his hand.

 

The Didionite wizard Fring Bulegosset, principal talent accompanying the armada of Honigalus of Didion, swept into the Crown Prince's day-cabin on the Casabarela Regnant with a supercilious nod.

"Your Royal Highness, how can I serve you?"

Honigalus and Fleet Captain Galbus Peel were seated at a table where charts and navigational instruments were laid out. The morning sun shone brightly outside the stern windows of the great barque. Three hours earlier, the fleet had emerged from the fog that had shielded it while it sailed out of Didion Bay.

Unfortunately, the fair wind that had speeded the fleet's passage on the previous day immediately dropped to a light breeze once the ships reached the open sea and turned south.

"Fring, I want you to bespeak King Beynor of Moss," said the prince, "and try to get him to pump up the damned wind for us. You can see how we've lost way in the last few hours. While he's at it, ask him to shift the wind direction from west to northeasterly, and bring back the fog so the enemy can't scry us. We're already nearly abreast of the Cathran shore. You can take a seat over there in the aft corner, by the windows, while you work."

"Well, I'll do the best I can, Your Highness," the wizard said tetchily, "but the young Conjure-King was uncommonly brusque when I last bespoke him, requesting his estimate on our time of arrival in the Dolphin Channel. One is tempted to think that our request for changes in the winds may be straining his abilities."

Fring seated himself, drew the hood of his black robe over his face with a dramatic gesture, and silently began the magical communication. He was a well-fleshed, pasty-faced man in his fourth decade of life, with a small tight mouth and beady blue eyes as pale as watered milk. His windwatching talent was the most powerful in Didion, equaled only by the towering arrogance of his manner. Even though the naval officers and men were on iron rations (and fair-minded Honigalus himself shared their fare for the sake of morale), special delicacies of food had been quietly brought aboard the flagship to keep this all-important wizard in good humor; he had also insisted upon traveling with his personal cook-slave.

Captain Peel said to the prince, "Do you think Fring could be right about Beynor not being able to pull his oar strongly enough, performing weather magic?"

"I don't know. Maybe these extraordinary feats are harder on a boy than on a grown man. There does seem to have been something strange about his behavior the last few times we've bespoken him. He's been evasive about the nature of the widespread landside fog, for one thing, not seeming to know whether or not it's natural or produced by Cathran adepts to hide troop movements. Still, my brother Somarus's scouts haven't found any evidence of forces assembling around Great Pass, and no Cathran infiltrators have been seen or captured by the outposts above Castlemont."

"This clear blue sky is unexpected." The captain was offhand, but Honigalus understood his implication immediately.

"And we know what it must mean! I doubt Beynor would admit that the Wolf's Breath has ceased of its own accord, and we certainly won't point it out to him while we still have a use for his magical services. But if the volcanos have gone quiet at last, there'll be no need to pay the young knave the outrageous trib­ute he squeezed out of my father. We won't deny him completely, lest he retaliate. But appropriate renegotiations will be called for."

Peel chuckled. "It's only just. I wouldn't be surprised if Beynor already knew the eruptions were nearly over when he pledged to stop them with sorcery."

"We can't trust him an inch, Galbus. But we don't dare antagonize him yet. We'll need fair winds in the Dolphin Channel to take on the Cathran fleet—and our allies in Stippen and Foraile must be able to join us without delay once we round the Vigilant Isles."

"This time of year, we're likely to get fair winds down there even without resorting to magic. Let me show you." The stalwart Peel began to demonstrate tactical technicalities on a channel chart, using tiny model ships, and the two men remained completely absorbed until the wizard rose from his seat, threw back his hood, and approached. His countenance was baleful.

"I've spoken to King Beynor," he announced, interrupting the captain's lec­ture without apology. "It seems His Majesty is temporarily indisposed, due to magical overexertion on our behalf. He tells me he'll perhaps be recovered later, when we can expect the wind to rise. Restoring the seafog, unfortunately, is not possible at this time. He gave me a complicated explanation involving arctic air masses and other meteorological twaddle that I'll spare you."

Honigalus uttered a disappointed curse. "There goes any hope of postponing the Cathrans spotting us."

"If we sail well away from the coast," Fring said, "we'll be out of their range. Only Mossland wizards, Tarnian shamans, and a handful of other adepts can windwatch or search beyond twenty leagues or so, even with combined talents." He paused and looked away modestly. "I, of course, am able to scry nearly thirty leagues, over open water."

"Which is why we are so fortunate to have you with us:' Honigalus said tactfully. "Don't worry, Highness:' Peel said, flicking an indifferent glance at the wiz­ard. "Even if the Cathrans do scry us, our strategy can accommodate it."

"But," intoned Fring, almost with malicious glee, "can it also accommodate a squadron of twenty Tarnian frigates racing to Cathra's aid? King Beynor assures me it is on its way. The ships left Tarnholme yesterday morning, driven by strong natural winds. We're actually racing them to Cala."

"Bloody hell!" groaned Honigalus. "How long before the Wave-Harriers make Intrepid Headland and Gala Bay?"

"Perhaps as little as four days, given the expertise of their crews," Fring said. "The Conjure-King may be able to delay them—but only at the cost of giving less impetus to our own fleet."

Galbus Peel was rummaging in a drawer of the chart table. He found more model ships and began deploying them in Tarn's Goodfortune Bay with a mor­dant smile. "Our upcoming sea-war looks more and more interesting. Any other bad news, wizard?"

"If you require some," Fring replied loftily, "I can always have my colleagues intensify their windscrutiny of the shore. Perhaps we'll detect a group of Cathran adepts scrying us from Skellhaven."

Honigalus said, "Do what must be done. And bespeak our spies in Cala City again. I must know whether Prince Conrig is still in the palace attending the dying king. Tell them to exert their talents to the utmost and find out for me."

Fring sniffed. "If King Beynor has thus far failed to discover Conrig's where­abouts, I doubt whether our people on the scene in Cala will have much better luck. I'll urge them to do their best, but I can't promise success." He gave a curt bob of his head and left the day-room.

"Prickly bastard," the Fleet Captain observed. "But he seems to know his job."

"Just as you do, my friend." Honigalus went to the expanse of windows at the ship's stern and looked out at the Didionite navy surrounding his flagship. The vessels had raised every scrap of canvas in hopes of utilizing the paltry breeze. "With Tarnian mercenaries augmenting their fleet, the Cathrans will have far the advantage of numbers until our allies from Stippen and Foraile arrive."

"But not a tactical advantage," Peel said comfortably. "Our men o' war are bigger, faster, and better armed, and we've forgotten more about naval tactics than those poxy southerners ever knew. With or without the aid of our Continental friends, we'll whip the cods off the lubbers."

For the first time in many days his body was free from pain, and the terrifying dreams had finally ceased. Let the Didionites wait until tomorrow for their high wind. He had other business to accomplish—out on the Darkling Sands.

The Conjure-King ordered his skiff to be prepared, then had himself driven down to the harbor in a two-wheeled pony carriage. Most of the fishing fleet was away, but six large sealers from Thurock had come up from the south and were unloading bales of raw furs and casks of oil at the commercial dock. A single fast schooner of the Fennycreek Company was taking on a cargo of amber, walrus ivory, and medicinal herbs, risking one last profitable run to the Continental markets before winter closed in. Beynor had the coach stop at their warehouse store, where the manager presented him with three small, lumpy leather sacks. He scrawled his signature on a receipt and ordered the carriage driver to proceed to the royal boathouse.

The day was brilliantly sunny and crisp with a smart offshore breeze, ideal for his day-trip. Alighting at his private dock, he greeted Opor, the grizzled old retainer in charge of small craft who had first taught him to sail when he was a tiny lad. "Is everything ready?"

"Aft'noon, Majesty. Got your oilskins stowed aboard. You'll need 'em out in the channel. It's chilly. Sand-gliders, too—but you take care if you go for a stroll on the flats today. Tide's dead low now, but she'll come in three foot over normal."

"Thanks, Opor."

"Sail's still under cover. Didn't figure you'd need it."

"That's fine." The king hopped aboard the skiff and stowed the three sacks while Opor cast him off. A few minutes later the boat was moving down the Darkling River, impelled by the regal talent, while Beynor sat at the tiller and gazed over the sparkling expanses of black sand.

He deliberately emptied his mind and tried to relax, keeping as close as he could to the southern shore, which was bereft of human habitation above the iso­lated village of Gonim. Area creeks draining the Little Fen made a maze of con-fusing channels accessible only to shallow-draft watercraft, such as his own skiff.

He steered up one of those creeks, past desolate marshy islets where recent hard frosts had rendered the rice-grass and bulrushes lifeless and brown and driven away most of the birds. It was cold, even with the windproof oilskins, and he hoped he wouldn't have to wait too long at the lake.

Two leagues inland, he reached the first of the Forbidden Lakes, linked dark mirrors of water having a reputation so sinister that not even the most intrepid fowlers and herb-hunters ever came there. Only Beynor came, and then only when he needed to converse face-to-face with the Darkling Sands Salka.

He liked to think that this particular band of monsters were his friends. They were much less sophisticated—and less contemptuous of humanity—than the Salka of the Great Fens or the Dawntide Isles. When Beynor was twelve, just entering manhood, two of the frightful creatures from the Forbidden Lakes had inexplicably rescued him from death on the tideflats. In the years that fol­lowed he'd visited their scattered settlements along the chain of lakes, bringing gifts and soliciting counsel on magical matters.

The Salka were the ones who had first recognized his tremendous talent and suggested that he might be able to master the Seven Stones of Rothbannon, even though his parents had failed so disastrously. The Salka had shown him how to convince Lady Zimroth (and ultimately, the entire Glaumerie Guild) that he was worthy to be trusted with the sigils. They'd guided him through his first encounter with the Lights when he'd activated Subtle Armor, the least of the minor stones. They'd advised him on the safe use of Shapechanger, Concealer, and Fortress. But when it came to the three Great Stones, the Darkling Salka had turned reticent. They provided only reluctant advice about Weathermaker—and would say noth­ing at all about Destroyer or the Unknown Potency. Whether their silence was prompted by fear, or by an unwillingness to permit a human to control high sorcery that should have belonged to their own race, Beynor did not know.

He did know that they were his only hope in overcoming the new crisis that faced him.

 

The familiar Salka lair lay within the high bank of a hummock at the last lake's far end, concealed by a growth of scraggly willows. The monsters who dwelt there had never invited him into their abode. Perhaps the entrance was underwater, as in a beaver's den. He guided the skiff to a point some five or six ells away, where the still, black water was very deep, and paused to listen. The only sound was a faint hiss of wind in the dead rushes.

Using the Salka language, he bespoke them.

"Great Ones of the Land and Water! It is I, Beynor, your friend. If this is a propitious time, I beseech you to please emerge and give me your excellent advice, for I am sore troubled."

He waited for what seemed an interminable time. It was always like that. Sometimes, especially during the past three years, after he'd empowered Weath­ermaker, the monsters had declined to meet him—not saying a word, simply refusing to come out.

"Please don't deny me today! I have gifts ..."

Ha!

First, a few bubbles, then a roiling of the water, and finally an upsurge and a fountaining splash that would have drenched him had he not worn the protective oilskins. The huge sleek form with the burning eyes opened his snaggle-toothed maw and uttered a conversational roar. He wore a sigil the size of a razor clam on a woven strand hung about his thick neck.

Beynor smiled and held out two of the leather bags. "Arowann, my old friend! Thank you for coming."

Boneless arms with tentacular fingers clasped the gifts. The monster's voice, although harsh and overloud to human ears, was amiable enough. "What have you brought us?"

"Beads of finest amber in many colors, pierced and ready to be strung." The king lifted the third bag. "And ivory love-rings, so that your sweetings may long delight in your attentions."

"Good." The Salim dropped the bags of amber into the water, where they were doubtless retrieved by one of his fellows, and did the same with the ivory. Then he sank neck-deep, blinked, and said, "Let me know your trouble, Beynor."

"Arowann, recently I've suffered agonizing dreams of the Lights. They seem to feed on my pain and demand more and more of it as I use my one Great Stone."

The monster considered the matter gravely for some minutes. "Do you use the Weathermaker sigil often?"

"Yes," Beynor admitted. "To aid my human allies in Didion, who are waging war on Cathra."

"Ah . . . a war. And have you also used the Great Stone in other ways?"

Beynor's reply was defiant. "I used it to make a triple rainbow at my corona­tion. It was necessary to impress the Didionite royal family with my abilities. To gain their respect."

"And how else?"

He flushed and looked away from the blazing red-gold eyes. "To create a great thunderbolt. It demolished the tower where my treacherous sister Ullanoth lived. But she was not inside, as I'd thought."

"In your dreams, did the Lights approve your actions?"

"It's hard to remember," the boy-king admitted nervously. "I think—I think they were scornful and laughed at me! But why should that be? Aren't the stones mine to do with as I like?"

The Salka's booming voice was caustic. "Only a fool, or a child, would ask such a question. The Great Stones extract enormous power from the Coldlight Army, and the conjurer must pay their price. If the Lights despise the use to which their power is put, or if they decide that the sorcerer is using the power frivolously, they may exact penalties."

"Worse than the pain-debt?"

"Much worse." Arowann shook his enormous crested head. "Beynor, my young friend, you said you came for advice. Here it is: leave off using the sigils vaingloriously. Approach the Lights in the way Rothbannon did—as a meek pupil—and do it very slowly."

"But I've made promises to my allies! And my sister will find a way to steal my kingdom if I don't destroy her. Is there no way I can make the Lights understand?"

"No," said Arowann. "There is no way any of us mortal beings can sway them. The Coldlight Army does as it pleases, and we deal with them circum­spectly, and always at our peril. Farewell." He sank out of sight.

Beynor stared at the place in the water where the monster had been, wishing his advice had been different. Then he took the tiller and steered the boat back in the direction it had come. On his right index finger, the glow of the knobby moonstone ring was lost in the Boreal sunshine.

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