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nineteen

Red Ansel knew well enough that Princess Maudrayne's sudden indisposi­tion was no true illness. The fact that he was forbidden by the Cathran royal family to attend and treat her was in itself suspicious. Instead, King Olmigon had thanked the shaman for his medical services, given him a large sum of gold ("for the relief of your suffering people"), and commanded him to be on board a ship of the grain convoy that was finally setting sail for Tarn on the morrow.

Deeply troubled, Ansel retired to his room in Cala Palace and windspoke his Source.

"Once again I am at a loss," he confessed, "unable to decide the best course of action, and so I beseech your advice."

Tell me your problem. Is it the wild-talented boy again?

"No, it's Princess Maudrayne. She's desperately unhappy and has discov­ered that her husband Conrig betrayed her with another woman—Ullanoth of Moss. She believes that Conrig intends to set her aside and marry the Conjure-Princess, and her pride is so wounded that she is determined to divorce him without attempting a reconciliation. Maude besought my help to escape from Cathra, but before I could counsel her she fell mysteriously ill and was sequestered from all visitors. I eluded Maude's guardians, came into her rooms, and found her looking healthy, but mentally stuporous. She would not respond to my questions. I believe Conrig's brother, who is an alchymist, gave her a potion to dull her wits. It was also impossible to bespeak her in her dreams, because she was transported by unnatural euphoria, unable to connect thoughts rationally. I think her husband wishes to ensure that she doesn't betray his plans to invade Didion—as well as preventing her from running away to Tarn. What I ask of you, dear Source, is whether I should help Maude escape."

Do you think her life is in danger?

"I'm certain it is not. She's finally pregnant with Conrig's child after years of barrenness. If Maude would only tell the prince of the babe, I think he would forget about Ullanoth in a trice. But she's too stubborn to follow such a course, wanting to be loved for herself—not for the wee creature she carries in her womb."

Very understandable! Nevertheless, she is no common woman, and her duty must supersede her vanity. It would be evil for her to betray Conrig's military plans out of sheer pique. And even more wicked for her to leave her straying royal husband, taking the fruit of his loins with her. She has been wronged, but she must not attempt such drastic redress—nor may you, in good conscience, assist her.

"So I am to abandon my poor young friend to her state of dazed oblivion?"

Don't think to pluck at my heartstrings, Ansel Pikan! Maudrayne's captors won't keep her drugged forever. When they leave off feeding her the potion, you must be there to talk sense into her. Prevent her from doing something so outrageously foolish that there'll be no turning back from it.

"Yes, you're right. I bow to your wisdom, Source. I'll pretend to obey Conrig's order to leave Cathra on one of the grain ships. It'll be easy enough to slip back ashore and find some place to hole up until I'm needed. Meanwhile, I'll quietly search Cala Palace for Darasilo's moonstones. Conrig never found them, and it's certain Kilian didn't take them with him—"

No! You must never think of meddling with those fatal sigils, not even for motives of safe keeping. They are forbidden to your touch. And the book that you took from the boy Deveron must remain unopened until you can hand it over to me.

"Ah! . . . How are you able to read my mind?"

No one can descry the thoughts of humankind save the gods, and I doubt whether even they would have the stomach for such a boring task, day after day. What I do read is the warp and woof of destiny's threads as it weaves the future fate of High Blenholme Island. And I tell you that you may not interfere in any matter touching upon Conrig Wincantor and his family.

"So I'm to do nothing at all for Maudrayne?"

The day will soon come when you'll be called upon to aid both the princess and your native land of Tarn. Until then, bide your time peacefully, Red Ansel—and pray that the Lights do the same.

*                                                          *                                                  *

Early on the morning that he and his Heart Companions were to depart for the north country, Conrig went to say farewell to his parents. As the lord-in-waiting opened the royal bedchamber door to admit him, another nobleman stormed out, so consumed with fury that he neglected even to acknowledge the Prince Heritor's presence.

Conrig shut the door behind him with a quizzical smile. "Lord Admiral Dundry seems to be in a fine state, sire."

Olmigon was in bed, propped up on pillows, scrawling with pained slow­ness on vellum, while Queen Cataldise and Odon Falmire, the Lord Chancellor, hovered over him.

"I've sacked the bastard," the king said with wry satisfaction, as he continued to write. "I gave him the chance to step down quietly from his post and retire with the gratitude of the Crown and a nice addition to his family estates. And what did he do? He had the bollocks to present me with a petition from twenty of our fighting captains, urging me to keep him on!"

"I'm amazed they'd be so bold," Conrig said.

"Easy to tell you've never had much to do with sailors." Olmigon sighed. "A naval captain is so accustomed to being a tyrant aboard his own ship, he gets to thinking that landside authorities are knaves or fools—or so sick and feeble that they can't tell good advice from bad."

"You mean, the naval officers think I've pressured you to dismiss Dundry unfairly?"

"Yes." the king scratched a few more words, signed his signature with a flour­ish, and passed the parchment to Falmire. "Seal that up good and proper, Odon, and deliver it yourself to Elo Copperstrand. He's appointed Lord Admiral as of now, and I want him to pick his own staff of First Captains and bring them to me for a strategy conference tomorrow afternoon."

The Chancellor took the brief, bowed, and left the room. At a nod from his father, Conrig removed the lap desk and writing materials from in front of the king and set them aside.

"I want you to attend the meeting, Con," Olmigon said.

The prince gently shook his head. "Today I leave for the north. I came to bid you farewell, sire. The naval defense of Cathra must rest in your capable hands and those of Lord Copperstrand."

The king's face fell. "Today? You can't leave now! I still need your advice on handling this cranky gang of sea-dogs. And what about the grain ships for Tarn?" "My love," said the queen anxiously, "I told you last night that Con and his Heart Companions were ready to depart."

"You did?" A momentary trace of bewilderment crossed the old man's face. His memory, like his other faculties, was failing; only his willpower seemed miraculously rejuvenated.

The prince said, "Sire, you know far more about naval matters than I, and Copperstrand is intelligent and trustworthy. He'll know how to deploy the ships to best advantage without any help from me. But you must buttress his authority if any of Tothor Dundry's old messmates begin playing mutinous power games."

"I'll have their cods for penny-purses if they try it," growled the king.

"The grain convoy sailed on the morning tide," Conrig continued. His mouth tightened. "And I made certain that the shaman Red Ansel was aboard . . . Each skipper knows that the kingdom's fate may depend on his getting the cargo quickly to Goodfortune Bay. The Treasury has pledged to pay double the agreed-upon exorbitant shipping fee to every ship that reaches Tarnholme within eight days."

Olmigon groaned. "I suppose it was necessary."

"It was," said the prince. "The Tarnian mercenaries have agreed to weigh anchor as soon as the arriving grain ships pass inspection. They could be here in a week or less if the winds are fair."

"If," muttered the king. "It's Boreal Moon, you know. The Western Ocean can expect any sort of weather from a flat calm to a spar-cracking gale. We've even had Hammer and Anvil storms in Boreal!"

Conrig forged on, ignoring the king's pessimism. "Meanwhile, I've rein-forced the coastguarding windvoices. The Acting Royal Alchymist, Vra-Sulkorig Casswell, has sent two dozen keen novices to beef up the strength at Castles Intre­pid, Defiant, and Blackhorse. Besides that, he organized a squad of inspectors to vet every shipboard windvoice in the fleet, making sure they're competent. The man's turned out to be a fine replacement for Kilian. We have Gossy to thank for recommending him."

"I wish you weren't taking Stergos with you, Con," the queen said. "He has none too robust a constitution, and that mooncalf squire of his isn't the kind of bodyguard I'd choose."

Conrig took her hand and spoke reassuringly. "Gossy will never go into harm's way, Mother. I swear it on my honor. If there's fighting, I'll defend his life with my own. Better yet I'll make certain that he stays well back out of any fray, as is proper for a man of peace. But I need him with me in this adventure, just as I will need him at my side when I become king."

"Stop worrying, Catty," the king admonished, forgetting that he had been expressing his own doubts minutes before. "Con, you must have Stergos wind-speak Vra-Sulkorig regular reports of your progress, which he'll pass on to me alone. I in turn will keep you informed of matters here in the south."

"I agree; Conrig said. "If at all possible, I'll have Gossy bespeak the news each day at sunset and he'll inform you at once if we encounter the foe. But always remember that our plan of attack through Breakneck Pass must be kept secret. Discuss it with no one except Vra-Sulkorig." He turned again to the queen. "No one else, Mother. Not even Lady Vandaya."

"I understand." She was slightly miffed that he had admonished her, yet felt a pang of guilt, realizing that she might have been tempted to confide in her old friend. She changed the subject "When shall we leave off giving Maudrayne the mind-dulling potion? It can't be healthy to keep dosing her with the vile stuff, no matter what Stergos and Sulkorig say."

"Stop only after I have joined battle in Holt Mallburn. After that, only keep her confined so that she doesn't run away. She must be here when I return." "I'll see to it," Cataldise said.

"Then it's time for me to go; Conrig said. "My men are waiting and we must reach Melora by nightfall. Father, may God sustain your life until we meet again."

Conrig kissed his mother, then bent over the king's bed to press his lips to the old man's brow.

The king pulled himself into a sitting position. In the days since his return from the pilgrimage, he had lost so much weight that his skin now hung on his bones like an oversized garment. His hands trembled now when they had nothing to grasp, but his eyes had come alive again and burned with hope and determina­tion. "We'll all be waiting for news of your triumph over Didion. And if Emperor Bazekoy should call on me to rise from this bed and assist you, I'll be ready"

 

In the late evening, as the Casabarela Regnant finally came clear of the perilous Darkling Sands and hoisted all sails for her homeward run, Ullanoth prowled the Didionite flagship, unseen by dint of Concealer. She had found a secure place to stow away on the orlop deck, the lowest part of the huge four-tiered barque. The locked and deserted sick bay had two com­fortable bunks, and food and water were easily available to her in the galley. After cleaning the stains from her face and hands and washing the grease from her hair, she went to eavesdrop invisibly on the royal family of Didion, who had fled to the ship immediately following the aborted coronation ceremony.

All of them had been well slathered with an ointment of chamomile, lavender, and pine, which gave some relief from their myriad midge bites. Queen Siry and the princesses had retired early to their beds, all save one of them nearly swooning with outrage. Risalla, the exception, was overcome by feelings of joyous deliverance, after her father informed her she would not be marrying the luckless Beynor after all.

Ullanoth found King Achardus and his sons gathered in the sumptuous cabin in the vessel's sterncastle, where they were restoring themselves by means of the traditional Didionite remedy after a bad day: getting drunk.

"More; the king commanded, holding out his cup to Somarus. "I can still feel the damned itching and see that river of red-eyed rats pouring into Beynor's throne room."

The prince obeyed with alacrity. They were drinking plum life-water, Didion's favorite spirit, prized in spite of the horrendous hangovers it caused.

"Archwizard Ilingus informed me that my wife's rat-bite was a trivial thing," Honigalus said, taking a pull from his own goblet. "It should heal quickly and leave only a tiny scar on her heel. But from Bryse's complaints, you'd think she'd taken a hit from a broad arrow. I'm never going to hear the end of this."

"You were the one who urged us all to attend that nightmare bash," his brother said waspishly. "I hope you're satisfied. At least your precious Treaty of Alliance is still in force—for whatever good it'll do us." He rose from the table and went to the great window at the stern. It was full dark now, and the ship left a phosphorescent wake as it ran across Seal Bay, flying before a chill northerly wind. The escorting vessels were visible only from their mast lights far astern.

"Beynor promises to keep a constant magical eye out for Cathran land incur­sions, Honigalus said. "That should give us a clear field at sea and do us plenty of good. If we sail well to the east, the Cathran magickers won't see us coming until we round the Vigilant Isles—even if they combine their windwatching talents."

"But Beynor admitted he doesn't have a moonstone amulet for scrying," Somarus said, "only the usual Mosslander sorcery."

"Which is far stronger than anything Lingo and his lot can muster. Everything will go well."

"So you lads are still determined to go ahead with your ploy?" Achardus's face was flushed and full of doubt.

Honigalus said. "Our spies in Cala City report that the Cathran fleet is still moored deep in Blenholme Roads like a flock of mud-hens sitting out a sun-shower, with small sea room to maneuver. And our mainland friends are ready. All they need are fair winds in the Dolphin Channel and a word from us."

The king wagged his gigantic head as if trying to clear his fuddled wits. "But to risk all our fighting fleet—"

The Crown Prince, who was in charge of Didion's Royal Navy, said, "The crews are sullen and insubordinate from being idle and on short rations, sire. If they have to spend the winter starving ashore, we'll lose most of them to deser­tion. Taking the fleet into action now, with the prospect of rich plunder in Cala, will lift their spirits sky-high. We'll never have such propitious conditions for a sea-strike again. Cathra's all in a lather because King Olmigon is dying. Vra-Kilian assured young Beynor of that. I daresay Conrig won't want to leave his father's bedside."

"Must keep our eyes peeled for trouble at Great Pass, though," Achardus warned blearily, surging to his feet and gesturing with his empty cup. "Keep our forces alert! Don't just count on Beynor to warn us. Sneaky rat bastard Conrig's capable of anything! Even aband'ning a dying father. What kind of a son'd do that?"

"No Didionite," Prince Somarus averred. "Only a degenerate Cathran. But we'll be ready for any trickery in the high country. I plan to collect and lead rein­forcements to Castlemont immediately. We won't be caught napping if Conrig attacks. And don't underestimate Beynor. He's a loathsome little pustule, but he's eager to earn our gold."

"What gold?" Achardus uttered a despairing groan. He was far gone in drink. "We have none left, 'cept the crown jewels. You'd think Beynor'd know that if he's such a thumpin' great magicker." He held out his cup. "More plum water!"

Honigalus poured, and refilled his own and his brother's cup as well. "Beynor knows there's gold aplenty in Cathra. And he's showed us how to take it."

"Should have figured it out by yourselves." The king's voice was slurred and lugubrious. Maudlin tears leaked from his eyes. "Not waited for a father-killer to tell you how to wipe your arses. Beynor murdered King Linndal! He's a monster. And he uses filthy Beaconfolk magic. He'll ruin us! Oh, gods—he'll bring the wrath of the Lights down on us, just like the old witch said!"

"We don't know that Beynor killed his father, sire." Honigalus tried to calm the agitated king. "Why should we take the word of a crazed woman? She was lying, making trouble. And now she's dead, destroyed by Beynor's thunderbolt. Here. Let me top off your cup."

Achardus batted the flagon aside and it fell to the carpeted deck, spewing col­orless liquid. "Woe!" the king moaned. "Witch Walanoth howled about woe. Warned us. But we didn't listen. Woe ..."

His huge body began to crumple. Honigalus and Somarus hastened to take hold of him, staggering under his enormous weight, and guided him to a large padded couch. Achardus collapsed on his back, and the younger men loosened his clothing and took off his boots. "Gonna puke," the King of Did-ion whispered. Somarus held a silver basin while Honigalus supported Achardus's head. He subsided then, bloodshot eyes half-closed and breath coming in slow, rasping surges.

"Let's cover him. Go to sleep ourselves," Honigalus mumbled. The princes finished tending to their father, then shuffled off unsteadily to their cabins.

Ullanoth watched the sleeping giant for a few minutes before going to her own secret bed. But not to sleep.

 

Beynor only thought to look inside the platinum case late on that awful night of humiliation, just before going to bed. He had some confused notion of comfort­ing himself with dreams of future triumph, when he would finally empower Destroyer and the Unknown and become a sorcerer greater than Rothbannon. His brain was so addled by wine that at first he could not understand why the velvet nests were all empty. He stumbled about his chambers in his nightshirt, pawing through chests and cabinets, throwing down the contents of shelves, whimpering as the frightful realization took slow root and grew.

Gone. Both Great Stones were gone, and only one person could have taken them.

He screamed and screamed then until his throat was raw, but inside the walls of Fortress, no one could hear him.

"Will there be anything more, Your Grace?" Snudge waited at the open door of Conrig's room after having ushered in all of the Heart Companions for a meeting with the prince. The travelers were established for the night in the mansion of the Lord Mayor of Melora, which was a prosperous small city on the River Blen. It marked the southern terminus of the Great North Road leading to Beorbrook Hold, and ultimately to Great Pass.

Only three of the ten young noblemen who attended Conrig and Vra-Stergos knew that their party would be heading in another direction with the dawn, tak­ing the eastern road to Castle Vanguard. It was to apprise the others of the true nature of the expedition that Conrig had called the meeting.

Snudge had been delegated to inform the armigers.

"You may go now; Conrig told him, "and see that you also make plain to the boys your special status."

Snudge bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him, and hurried down the deserted corridor. Members of the mayor's household were discreetly absent from this part of the house.

Codders! Snudge thought. Here comes trouble! By rights Belamil Langsands, the stocky level-headed squire who attended Count Sividian, and the oldest of them at nineteen, acted as the leader of the armigers and transmitted royal com­mands and announcements. But Conrig had been adamant that Snudge was to do the job tonight.

"It's time the lads acknowledge your particular place in our picked body of warriors," the prince had said. "And time for you to show that you have the stones to occupy your new position. You are not merely a squire, you are my blooded man. Tell the others about your encounter with Iscannon—but not about his sigil. They must know nothing of your talent, of course, but you may make up some tale about being no stranger to magic if you think it will better dispose them toward eventually accepting you as their leader."

Taken aback, Snudge found himself gawping with astonishment. "I, Your Grace? But Belamil—"

"He's a brave young man and trustworthy, but hardly the one to lead a troop guarding Princess Ullanoth during the battle for Holt Mallburn."

"Your Grace, wouldn't it be more fitting if you assigned several of your Com­panions to this service? The lady might take offense at being offered an escort of mere armigers."

"It matters not how she regards you," Conrig retorted. "She's bound to come to us after we enter Mallburn Town, and I have reasons of my own for keeping her apart even from my closest friends. The boys won't dare question her and they'll keep her safe from obvious physical dangers. While you, my Snudge, over-see her magicking as best you can—more unobtrusively, I hope, than any Brother of Zeth. Thus far, Ullanoth knows nothing of your talent. I wish this state of affairs to continue."

"So . . . you don't really trust her after all." The boy barely concealed his relief.

"I trust her to do as she promised," the prince had said, "aiding us to con­quer Didion. What she does subsequently, while I'm too occupied by the fight­ing or its aftermath to stay close to her, may be a cause for concern. Or not!" He shrugged, but his eyes were shadowed. "Perhaps our stratagem will prove unnecessary—or even impossible to implement. But I want you to be prepared, and the squires as well. I realize I've given you no clear instructions in this mat-ter, but there can be none until circumstances dictate."

Snudge could only say, "I understand, Your Grace. Rely on me."

 

He squared his shoulders as he entered the common room of the mayor's house-hold warriors, which had been cleared of furniture so that the armigers could bed down there.

"Welcome to our humble abode," redheaded Mero Elwick called out snidely. "We'd despaired of having you join us, thinking His Grace might want you to sleep on the floor outside his door like a faithful hound."

A few of the boys laughed. Snudge said quietly, "If His Grace had requested that, I would have obeyed. But instead he's sent me here with an important message for all of you."

There were surprised comments, and Saundar Kersey, Count Tayman's armiger, asked, "Does it pertain to our mission?"

"It does indeed," Snudge said. "Let's gather round the fire. It's a damp eve­ning, with the fog coming on so thick."

"May I pour you a warm libation, messire?" Mero inquired with mock courtesy, reaching for the steaming cider-pot on the hob.

"That would be a kindness," said Snudge, giving over his new silver cup, one of the gifts of his investiture.

"Oops!" Mero let the goblet slip from his hand and ding on the hearthstone. "Not much harm done, young Deveron." He chuckled and managed to slop some of the hot drink on Snudge's wrist as he returned it.

"Thank you," the boy said, without rancor. Belamil and a few of the others scowled at Mero's spiteful display, but most of them were only interested in what Snudge would say next. "Prince Conrig has kept our true destination secret in order to foil enemy windwatchers. We are not going to reinforce Beorbrook Hold and guard Great Pass. Instead, we'll ride tomorrow to Swanwick, and on the third day arrive at Castle Vanguard, where we'll join an army poised to invade Didion over Breakneck Pass."

A tumult of shouting. Finally, Belamil cried out, "Let Deveron speak."

The others fell silent and watched him solemnly. Even Mero's usual sour expression had vanished.

"A couple of weeks ago, five of us lads accompanied Prince Conrig, Lord Stergos, and Counts Sividian, Feribor, and Tayman to Castle Vanguard. There the prince conferred with Duke Tanaby, Earl Marshal Beorbrook, and fifteen other nobles of the north country at a great council of war. It was decided to invade Didion over Breakneck Pass at the end of the Boreal Moon."

There were excited exclamations. Snudge plowed on. "The army will number only about five hundred warriors. We'll move with the greatest speed possible, rid­ing coursers, not heavy destriers. We'll be armored only in mail but carry ample weapons. Magical allies who have created this thick fog will guide us over the mountain pass and help us to take the enemy outposts by surprise. Our army will press on to Holt Mallburn and there, with the help of more magical assistance, we will set parts of the city afire with tarnblaze as a distraction and enter the palace of Achardus through wide-open portals. This last feat will also be successfully accomplished through magical aid."

He paused, seeing round eyes and open mouths. "Any man among you who is fearful of the supernatural or less than confident of his ability to stay the course when magic is employed may feel free to leave the company and return to Cala."

A chorus of "Nay!" began tentatively, but soon shook the rafters.

Then Mero spoke with cool insolence. "Who are you to question our courage, and offer to dismiss us like children if we fall short?"

"I am Prince Conrig's liege man, sworn to his service. Some of you may know that my rank of armiger is only symbolic, because of my youth and the

rules of chivalry. In truth, I became the prince's man by shedding blood on his behalf—the blood of a Mossland sorcerer spying on the council of war at Castle Vanguard, who may have had designs upon the prince's very life."

"You killed a sorcerer?" Saundar, a clever, dark-haired youth two years older than Snudge, was plainly incredulous.

The boy caught the eye of Gavlok Whitfell, Stergos's squire, who only shook his head. He had not passed on Snudge's confidence to the others.

Snudge spoke softly so they would be obliged to listen rather than gabble. "I stabbed him to the heart, and I'll tell you the tale anon. But first I must recount the prince's orders to you. Your duties during this enterprise will be mostly as usual—attending your masters. But His Grace has advised me that there may come a time when some members of this company of armigers may be called upon to perform an exceptional service for him. If this happens, I will be your leader."

"You!" Besides the affronted response from Mero, there were surprised protests from the rest.

"There is a reason why Prince Conrig has called on me, young as I am, rather than Belamil to lead. I have a certain acquaintance with magic. I can smell it out, if you like, and I know how to take precautions against its power."

The room had gone dead quiet except for the crackling of the fire.

Then one of the boys said, "Is that how you managed to kill the sorcerer? Tell us about it."

"Soon. But first, let those who can't bring themselves to follow my lead speak up and leave the room."

"I will follow you," said Belamil gravely. "The judgment of Prince Conrig making you his man is reason enough for me."

"And for me," said Gavlok.

One after another, the other armigers also concurred. All except Mero.

"I'm sworn to my master, Count Feribor," he said, not bothering to conceal his scorn. "Only if he commands it will I be led by a low-born grub like you. D'you want me to leave?"

"Stay," Snudge said. The last person he would choose to help guard Princess Ullanoth during a battle would be Feribor Blackhorse's cross-grained squire, so what did it matter?

"The sorcerer! Tell us!" the others demanded eagerly.

So Snudge began the highly amended tale of what he had done at Castle Vanguard.

 

Ullanoth windwatched Conrig's colloquy with the Companions, then Sent herself to him when the men were well gone.

"My prince," she breathed, and felt a small rush of satisfaction at his start of alarm. Conrig had been given the Lord Mayor's own fine bedroom, which was now somewhat of a mess with rugs kicked awry, chairs and stools dragged together before the fire and left every which way by the departed Companions, and tables and floor littered with the prince's possessions, sheets of parchment, and a welter of maps and equipment lists.

He did not speak immediately, but took her into his arms and kissed her. Then he said, "You need a bath. And your clothes are damp."

She gave a rueful laugh. "I'm traveling on a ship. And I had not been able to wash properly for nearly a week before embarking, since I was feeling unwell. At least my hair is clean and most of the dye washed from my face. You should have seen me in my hag disguise, berating the Didionite royals. I was a sight to brown a strong man's smallclothes."

He smiled at her crudity. "There's a tub of water behind that screen that was hot an hour ago. We could heat up a cauldron on the fire and make a tepid bath for you, at least."

She considered the matter with a whimsical smile. "If a dirty Sending washes itself, will the original body be made dean? I have no idea! Let's experiment. But there's no need to heat water. I can do that easily with my talent."

She sprawled on the hearth-rug and began stripping off her rough clothing, telling him the tale of Beynor's sorry coronation festivities. Soon they were both howling with mirth.

"If only I could have seen it," Conrig said. He gave her a cup of mead and sat on the floor beside her, admiring the rosy reflections of the fire on her slender form. "But with Beynor so humiliated, won't he be driven to empower another of his Great Stones out of sheer revenge?"

"He cannot," she said with satisfaction. Then, playing fast and loose with the truth, she told him she had destroyed her brother's two inactive sigils. "Great God! So they can be obliterated so easily?"

"The unempowered stones, yes. I don't know what would happen if a person attempted to destroy a conjured sigil by main force. It's possible that the stone would defend itself in some deadly fashion. I do know for certain that if a person who is not the owner touches an active sigil without permission, he is severely burnt."

He gestured to Sender, which hung on its chain around her neck like a faintly glowing teardrop. "Then a sigil cannot be lent to another to use?"

"Never. Beynor had to perform a spell of abolition in order to turn his Con­cealer over to Iscannon. He had to relinquish ownership of it so that his minion could conjure it himself."

"I see." For a time Conrig remained silent, smiling thoughtfully as he ran one hand lightly over her pearly hair. Then he asked, "Are you safe from your brother's evil magic now?"

"I believe so. For all Beynor's hatred of me, he is still a very intelligent brat. I think he realizes that his future depends upon regaining the goodwill of Didion—not retaliating against his big sister. And don't forget . . . he believes I'm dead, blasted to smuts along with the top of my tower."

"Does he truly believe that?"

She frowned, then gave a sigh. "His thunderbolt was a great show of power for the royals of Didion, and Beynor will probably cling to the belief that I'm dead for a time, just to comfort his devastated pride and his rage at the loss of the two Great Stones. He won't doubt that I was responsible. But soon enough he'll begin to wonder whether I might have escaped on one of the Didionite ships, and then he'll try to find me."

"But you can hide from him, can't you?"

"Alas, the moonstone that would have veiled my presence completely and provided a sure refuge against all danger was lost in my tower's destruction. However, I still have my Concealer, which renders me invisible. Its powers are limited while I'm Sending. I must choose to conceal either the inanimate husk left behind—and this I have done tonight—or the Sending itself, as I intend to do when I assist your invasion. Beynor owns no sigil capable of pinpointing a sor­ceress such as I, nor can he identify me by windsearching if I'm very cautious in my own use of the arcane talents. All he can do—all any of the Guild can do—is survey every nook and cranny of the vast Didionite capital city with windsight and hope to encounter me while I'm visible, just as though they were hunting me by ordinary means."

 Remembering how Snudge had followed her windtrace to Fenguard Castle, Conrig said, "But isn't it possible for a very powerful adept to scry you out if he finds the thread of your arcane speech or sight?"

"Yes," she admitted grudgingly. "But I'm surprised to find you so well-versed in thaumaturgy, my prince."

"Stergos has taught me much in the past few weeks. And what if Beynor tracks down your visible Sending?"

"To Send is far more subtle than to bespeak or descry. If Beynor chanced to discover my visible vacated body, he might be able to trace me to my Sent desti­nation. Or if he watched us here, at this moment, he might perhaps trace the thread back on the wind to the sick bay where my invisible husk lies hidden on the Didionite flagship. But I believe there is small chance of him doing so." And I must continue to believe it, since there's nothing I can do to change the situation.

Conrig climbed to his feet. "Time for your bath, my lady. The Lord Mayor left me a cake of lavender-scented soap and at least half a dozen Forailean towels, soft as swansdown."

"Excellent." She rose with the sinuous grace of a meadow cat, silhouetted against the fire. Sender, the Great Stone that was actually very small in size, shone at her throat. "You shall be my attendant. And while you serve me, I'll tell you how I intend to help you conquer Didion . . . and how Honigalus plans to attack Cala by sea."

"Zeth! Have you overheard the Didionites discussing it? When will they sail? Can my army reach Holt Mallburn in time to stop them?"

"I haven't discovered that yet" She beckoned to him and moved to the tub behind the screen. "But you can be sure that I will find out. I have recently conjured a new sigil named Subtle Loophole that enables me to both oversee and listen closely to anyone, anywhere. This is a wonderful new weapon, a Great Stone purchased at the cost of much pain and suffering."

His face was troubled. "Will not such a thing put you in greater peril of the Lights?"

"Let me worry about that," she said, stepping into the now-steaming tub, which was made of burnished copper with a fine embossed-silver rim. "Forget about wars and sorcery for a few minutes, and concentrate on helping me to get clean again. And then let us take comfort in one another. I do love you with all my heart and soul, Conrig, and I long for the day when we can remain together for more than a few short hours." She tilted her head, staring at him in smiling speculation. "Do you realize we have never seen one another truly, or touched—save through magic? But we'll meet at last in Holt Mallburn, when you're victorious, and I pray we'll never be apart again."

"It will be a wondrous day, in so many ways," he said, striving to imbue the words with loving enthusiasm. Then he turned away to bring her the scented soap and a sponge, and to hang up her damp garments in front of the fire.

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