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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
"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
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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
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
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
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
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
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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