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thirteen
Iscannon's
sigil lay on the stone floor of the corridor, its glow and pain-giving
potential temporarily in abeyance. Without touching the thing with his bare
hand, Snudge maneuvered it by its thong into
his belt-wallet. The book seemed harmless enough when he gave it a fearful tap with his finger, so he rewrapped
it and hid it again inside his shirt.
He hurried to the armigers'
quarters, arriving as the half-tenth-hour chime sounded. It was the usual bedtime for squires of the prince's cohort,
but none of the other boys were
there. A quick overview of the palace showed him that they were part of
the throng of courtiers waiting to welcome King Olmigon home from his
pilgrimage. No one would miss Snudge. People were used to his odd comings and
goings.
He hid
the wallet with the sigil under his palliasse, which was closest to the outer door so he
could sneak out easily at night, then went down the corridor to the
necessarium. After entering and fastening the latch, he ignited the candle with
his talent, unwrapped the book, and sat down on the covered stool to study.
The
chapter that claimed his immediate attention was the one entitled Vital Precautions for the Thaumaturgist.
Nearly an hour later,
hearing the sound of distant cheers through the latrine's loophole, he closed
the small volume with a sigh and returned to the dormitorium. The other boys wouldn't tarry long in the
forecourt once the royals arrived. The Palace Steward would shoo them
off to bed.
He
undressed, tucked the wrapped book under his pillow, and lay beneath his
covers, watching the smoky flames in the oil sconce hanging on the wall, thinking
about what he had discovered.
Parts
of the book were straightforward enough. Empowering a sigil—bringing it to life—always
inflicted great pain upon the conjurer. Invoking the magic of the moonstones caused more or less suffering,
depending upon the strength of the spell
required. Also, certain sigils affecting the human body would only work when
in contact with the owner's skin. The
invisibility charm he'd taken from the spy was of that type.
When the owner died, a
sigil's efficacy was cancelled. Ordinarily, someone else wishing to conjure a
"dead" sigil into fresh activity would intone a rather lengthy
incantation laying claim to it. The formula was in the book, but unfortunately
written in that same unknown language used in the two larger books he'd
left behind in Kilian's sanctum. As written, the strange words had far too many consonants and odd diphthongs for Snudge to
guess at their correct pronunciation.
Saying them wrong, he had learned from the Vital Precautions led to
horrible penalties.
By chance,
using the moonstone disk on the book's cover, he had stumbled upon a hazardous shortcut that invoked the Beaconfolk
directly without the appropriate ceremonial
overtures. This constituted a breach of magical etiquette that the book strongly cautioned against. As he
had suspected, the cranky wind-voice
he'd heard had been one of the Beaconfolk (a low-ranking one, in charge of
less-important sigils), asking him what the
bloody hell he wanted. According to the
book, his failure to answer the query properly might well have resulted in his
annihilation. Only lucky happenstance had saved him.
The appropriate response to
the affronted Light was right there in the book—also given in the foreign
tongue, and thus quite useless to Snudge.
The Vital Precautions chapter had a long list of magical missteps with con-sequences
that were mortal—or worse. Reading them with a sinking heart, he had almost
dropped the terrible book down the dunghole right then and there.
I can't
do this! he'd said to himself. I want to be Prince Conrig's intelligencer--not risk my life
mucking about with sky-monsters that can squash me like a gnat.
But
niggling curiosity, and a feeling that he would be nothing more than a craven
child if he gave up so easily, had compelled him to turn back to the beginning
of the little volume and skim through it as best he could. The unfamiliar spelling
and peculiarly shaped letters
bothered him less and less as he read the short chapters; but there were still certain explanatory
sections he could make no sense of, as well as the all-important spells written
in the foreign tongue.
The
much longer chapter with the catalogue of sigils included a precise drawing of
Iscannon's piece of moonstone and its proper name, Concealer, together with its
uses and its activating incantation. The thing was a futtering miracle! Not
only was it capable of making its wearer invisible, it could also hide other
specified living or inanimate things within a radius of "four
armes longthes" if given the proper command. With that feature,
he learned, a sorcerer might conceal the horse he was riding on or even a small
boat, or shield a group of people huddling within about four ells of him.
But
only if he pronounced the alien spell properly. If he said the words wrong, the sigil might kill him in various hideous ways,
or the annoyed Beaconfolk might play one of their capricious jokes—such as casting him into an
abominable arctic netherworld minus his skin, where he'd spend eternity in
frozen agony.
I'm
stumped, Snudge admitted miserably, as he lay in bed. He might as well throw
both the sigil and the book into the sea, as Conjure-Prince Beynor had
commanded. There was no way he'd ever be able to use this magic safely.
By now he
had read or paged through virtually every volume in Vra-Kilian's main
Alchymical Library. He knew for certain that none of them had been a
pronouncing dictionary of that distinctive weird language. Neither had there
been such a book in the locked cases in the inner sanctum. Perhaps the
inability to pronounce the spells was the fatal flaw that had deterred the
villainous Royal Alchymist from utilizing his own large collection of sigils.
Shite .. .
By
rights, Snudge concluded, I should speak to Prince Conrig before getting rid of Iscannon's sigil and the
book. His master might want to confer with Princess Ullanoth, who doubtless was familiar with such
dangerous sorcery. Perhaps she'd tell the prince how to pronounce the spell of
invisibility.
But all
the boy's instincts rebelled against that course of action. Ullanoth had warned
Conrig that the sigil was too dangerous to keep. Rather than share its spell
with him, she'd more likely demand that he turn the moonstone over to her
immediately, or throw it away.
Snudge heard young voices in the corridor outside. The
armigers were returning.
As they trooped into the room, some of the boys giggled and gave owl hoots when
they saw Snudge already abed, but he cursed them good-naturedly and drew his feather-tick over his head. After the usual noisy
scrambling about subsided, Belamil snuffed
the light and commanded silence. Everyone settled down just as the
castle chimes struck the first hour of morning.
I'll decide what to do
tomorrow, Snudge thought.
But he'd reckoned without
his nightmare, which was about to change.
In it, he fought Iscannon as
usual, and felt himself succumbing to the icy enchantment.
But when he stabbed the spy to the heart and heard the windvoice cry out
desperately for Beynor, the Conjure-Prince entered Snudge's dream in a
completely different aspect.
No longer at sea, the
Mosslander was sitting at a table in a darkened room, wearing a quilted robe
decorated with rather silly little stars. His expression was different; the
erstwhile haughty self-confidence was gone and he looked both angry and
diminished, as though he had experienced some great defeat, or humiliation.
I know what you've done,
Deveron Austrey.
"Oh, really?"
The question is, what am
I going to do about it?
"I hope you don't
intend to bore me with your usual threats and insults—or bring me more painful
nightmares. They're a nuisance, nothing more. If you could have harmed me
seriously, you'd have done it already. You're all piss and-wind, Prince
Beynor."
Not quite! But in light
of recent events, I'm reconsidering our adversarial relationship, and I suggest
you do so as well. It would be mutually profitable if we were allies instead of
enemies.
"I doubt it."
Let me explain. I know
about the book you stole.
"I didn't steal any
book."
You're
the only one who could have taken it. No one else would have dared enter the Royal Akhymist's sanctum. No one else in
"Hah!
So you admit you aren't certain I have it! You weren't windwatching me."
No
one can windwatch you, Deveron Austrey. This is why you're such a danger—and such a potential asset. I knew someone must
have taken Iscannon's sigil. No sigil, alive or dead, can be perceived by a
windwatcher, but persons possessing them usually give themselves away by their actions. Since neither the prince nor his
brother Stergos seemed to have
Iscannon's stone, that left you—the strangely unwatchable servant boy. A
sight of you was flashed to me by
Iscannon even as he died.
"And you snuck into my
dreams."
I have that ability. It
was a source of great distress to my dear sister until she learned how to shut
me out. I even used it on my father, to sway his poor mad mind.
"Will you stop beating about the bush and tell me what
you want?"
All in good time. Would
it surprise you to know that Vra-Kilian, the Royal Alchymist of Cathra, is my creature? He discovered that the small
magical book was gone almost as soon as
he returned to
"So Kilian's the
traitor! Thanks for the information. I'll tell Prince Conrig right away. He's
suspected the alchymist for some time."
Don't talk like a fool. There's
no way Conrig can prove his uncle's treachery. Your word on the matter is worth
less than a fart in a beermug.
"Elegantly put, my
prince."
I'm not a prince any
more. My father Linndal died—may the Moon shine kindly on his spirit—and he
named me his successor and debarred my sister Ullanoth from the throne. I'm
Conjure-King Beynor now! The news will be windspoken all over High Blenholme by
tomorrow.
"Congratulations. But
why bother telling me?"
You can be very valuable
to me, and vice versa. My sigil and the book
that you stole from the Royal Alchymist
"How
many times must I say that I don't have anything that belongs to you. And nothing that Kilian has a true claim on,
either."
He believes otherwise . .
. and he knows that you're the thief I told him so. He'll be coming for you
unless you agree to serve me. He'll slice off your body's flesh by inches, you upstart horse-lackey, and toast the
bloody collops and force-feed them to you, unless I call him off
"Do
you know what I think? I think you're lying again. If you'd told Vra-Kilian that I have his book, he'd be here in the
dormitorium with his henchmen trying
to drag me out of bed. And I'd be screaming for my master, Prince Conrig, and
eleven hopping-mad armigers would be whacking at wizards and raising a ruckus
that'd lift off the palace roof."
You think you're clever,
Deveron Austrey, but
"Stop
trying to bluff? You're not absolutely certain that I have the book and the sigil, and you don't know where I might have
hidden them. Vra-Kilian and his magickers will never find the things . . . and
they'll never find me if 1 decide to hide.
Very well. You win.
"... What's that supposed to mean?"
I
have no intention of setting the Royal Alchymist on you. I'm actually extremely
disappointed in him. I've decided to offer you his job—together with the
rewards that go with it.
"What!"
Become my secret
retainer, Deveron Austrey. Conrig Wincantor gave you a sword and a suit of
armor and some flimsy promises of manorlands when you're twenty. I'll give you power and riches beyond imagining, and
do it right now.
"Until
I `disappoint' you, Conjure-King! Then you'll toss me to the monsters."
Your skepticism is
understandable. So I'll give you a demonstration of my good faith and regal
generosity. I'll instruct you how to activate your sigil of invisibility, with
no strings attached. As a free gift.
"I don't believe you.
You'll trick me. Destroy me!"
Why
should I bother? I'm trying to make friends. To win you over. You can find the proper words
right there in your stolen book, under the picture of Concealer, but they're useless because you can't say them correctly.
"If I had the book,
that'd be true."
Don't
be tedious. Now: you must always keep this kind of sigil against your flesh for it to work. To be unseen, say or whisper: BI DO
FYSINEK. To be visible again, say: BI FYSINEK. If you want the magical cover to
extend about four ells around you—to shield other people, for instance—say:
FASHAH. To make the cover shrink again: KRUF AH. It's all quite simple. Say the
words, Deveron.
"Bi do fysinek. Bi
fysinek. Fash ah. Kruf ah."
No no no! Don't use your disgusting Cathran drawl. Roar
the words! Speak deeply as I did, breathing roughly.
"BI
DO FYSINEK. BI FYSINEK. FASH AH. KRUF AH."
Perfect. What a great
memory you have! Now there's a bit more to learn, and I'll admit that this is
the rather sticky part. Concealer is dead, because it was conjured to Iscannon,
and he's dead. To make it live again, you must—um---introduce yourself to the Lights
as the new owner. The safest way to do this is with a long incantation written
there in your book, but you'd never remember how to say it all, so you'll have
to do things another way.
"I
know. By wearing the sigil, then touching it to the moonstone disk on the cover of the book. Then the
monster howls: CADAY
AN RUDAY? and I start to die." Hah! So you've already tried it.
"And
not about to do it again—not for a peck of rubies."
No,
listen. The Light was only asking what you wanted. They do get a bit testy if
one doesn't answer properly. The correct reply is: GO TUGA LUVKRO AN AY COMASH
DOM. It means, "May the Cold Light grant me power." Then the Light
asks you your name, and you say it in the same gruff accent. That's all there
is to it.
"If
the magic was as simple as that, sigils wouldn't have such an evil reputation.
Neither would the Lights."
Well, activating a lesser
sigil does hurt a bit, but not more than a strong lad like you can easily bear.
And there are things that can get you into serious trouble, but that happens
mostly with the more complicated and powerful stones. An invisibility charm is
about as simple and foolproof as Beaconfolk magic can be. That's why I let my
late associate Iscannon borrow and empower Concealer, and why I'm offering it to
you.
"Many
a spy would sell his soul for such a thing ..."
I want you to be my
spy—and I have no interest at all in your soul, provided that it doesn't get in
the way of your loyalty to me. What do you say, Deveron? Prince Conrig's scheme
to conquer Didion will never succeed. I know all about his plans. He'll get
himself killed by sorcery or Didionite battle-axes up on
"How
old are you, Conjure-King?"
Sixteen,
as you are, Deveron Austrey. And in my kingdom, an adult man by law. "Interesting. Thank you for
the offer, but I don't want to be your minion. I'm already pledged to Prince
Conrig, and my word is good."
You're a shortsighted
fool.
"Perhaps. But now I know how to make the sigil
work—so what does that make you?"
A
brand-new king who made a sad misjudgment. We live and learn! Well, other pressing matters demand my attention. I assure you
that I won't be troubling your dreams anymore. Think of me as you make use of
Concealer. I might even suggest that you avail yourself of it this very night
to raid Vra-Kilian's treasure trove of sigils. He'll certainly hide it
somewhere else tomorrow, now that he knows an intruder has access to his
sanctum, and you'll never find them with a windsearch. Good-bye, Deveron
Austrey. I don't think we'll meet again.
Snudge woke, adequately warm
and unparalyzed beneath his covers. The sky outside the window was black, with
a few stars, and it felt as though it was still fast night. His surmise was
confirmed a few moments later when the chimes struck
the fifth hour of the morning. At this time of year, the sun didn't come up
until nearly seven.
He
remembered every word of his conversation with Beynor and knew beyond any doubt that it had not been a figment of
his imagination. It was real. And so was the imminent danger.
Steal
the Royal Alchymist's collection of sigils right now, after activating
Concealer? Did Beynor really think he was so asinine?
I
don't think we'll meet again ...
Right.
And Snudge had a good notion why! He had no intention of playing into whatever
booby trap the Mosslander had prepared for him, but something had to be done, and he didn't dare wait until
morning to do it. He felt beneath his palliasse, finding the wrapped
book and the sigil inside his wallet just as he had left them. He couldn't possibly keep them now, even if Beynor had told
the truth about the activation spell. There was Vra-Kilian to consider.
In the dream-conversation,
Snudge had boasted that he wasn't afraid of the wizard. Now that he was awake, he sensibly reconsidered.
It did seem all too likely that Kilian had discovered
that the book was gone, and he was probably searching for it this very
minute. Like all Brothers of Zeth, he
possessed powerful magic of his own that he could use to hunt for lost items.
Stergos had once explained to Snudge that the windsearch was a faculty closely related to scrying. It could be focused intensely
over nearby areas, "calling out" to the object of the search.
Its effectiveness varied according to the power of the individual adept, but
not even the sprawling expanse of
Perhaps Snudge's personal
immunity from windwatching would keep him and
a book in close proximity to him safe from the wizard's scrutiny—but maybe
it wouldn't. He wasn't going to take chances, especially now that he
had firmly decided to eschew Beaconfolk magic.
Both the book and the sigil
named Concealer were going down down down—to the bottom of
The other armigers were
still snoring merrily. Snudge crept out from the covers, cautiously opened his
trussing coffer, and found a stout winter jerkin, a wool tunic, and leather trews. After he finished dressing, except for
his boots, he stowed the book and
sigil and retrieved his new heavy cloak and sword-belt from their
wall-pegs. Then he picked up his boots and slipped out of the chamber.
The
bare flagstones of the corridor were like ice beneath his stockinged feet, even though Cathra
had yet to experience its first frost. He pulled on his footgear quickly. There were no rush-mats or other
frivolous luxuries in the
Two
guardsmen were on nightwatch there. Snudge hid from them with the ease of long
practice and continued down the stairs to the first storey, where signs of opulence became evident. There were fine brass
standard-lamps every dozen feet, having only a single flame burning at
this hour. Polished wood overlay the stone
flooring of an enclosed arcade, where there were beautifully carved marble
pillars and ornamental pots holding living shrubs. The arcade led to the main block of the palace and the apartments of the
royals and the high nobility. There were
more guards, splendidly accoutered, stationed at the entrance, but he crept
past them unseen.
To
reach Vra-Kilian's rooms, Snudge would have had to turn right at the arcade's end. He only paused for a moment,
concealed in heavy shadows behind a statue, before turning left. After
descending a handsome flight of banistered stairs
and slipping through an unbarred but guarded door, he arrived in the royal
mounting-yard. Beyond lay the stables sheltering the king's horses, which numbered
nearly two hundred, and behind them were buildings devoted to the care of the
pampered animals and their tack. When he was young, Snudge had worked there
with his grandfather. He knew every inch of the area, and was familiar with its
special-purpose gate.
Even in
the dark of night, there were plenty of people moving about. Some were unloading
firewood or other bulk goods from the wagons of tradesmen. But most were bent on shoveling muck, befouled straw,
and kitchen garbage from a big pile near the curtain wall and loading it
into stout carts that would haul it away. This
homely task was attended to every other night in the late autumn and winter,
when the stench from the accumulated refuse was only moderate. In warm weather, the carts rolled in and out of the palace
every night, using the appropriately
named Dung Gate. They were forbidden to travel the city streets after sunrise.
The Dung Gate guard detail
was not drawn from the cream of the palace's men-at-arms. Its roster was
composed of unfortunates who had been found drunk on duty or were guilty of
brawling, petty theft, or other derelictions. The guards were notoriously
susceptible to bribery, and denizens of the palace who wished to slip out anonymously into the town on clandestine errands
invariably went by way of the Dung Gate.
Snudge didn't even bother to
hide as he approached the wide-open portcullises. He simply gave one of the
men-at-arms a silver quarter-mark, said, "Back before sunup," and
strode out in the wake of a creaking load of ordure.
"And a good morn to
you, messire!" the soldier said, with a sloppy salute. "Watch where
you tread."
Snudge
made his way to the docks by means of familiar byways, easily eluding the
circulating squads of night-watchmen. Cala was quiet, and the moon
had gone down so that the alleys were
exceptionally dark. There were no beggars
in Olmigon's beautiful capital city, and very few footpads, since the citizenry
was obliged to observe the tenth-hour
curfew. The only area where the law was
winked at was the waterfront. Ships might arrive or depart at any hour, according to the tide, so dockworkers and sailors were
abroad around the clock. Many
of the taverns, cheap inns, and bawdy houses
that catered to them never closed.
Water Street was only moderately crowded when Snudge reached it. The Wolf's Breath had put a severe dent in commercial
traffic, and most of the sailors
still carousing belonged to Cathran warships at anchor out in the Roads, come
into port after a tour of blockade duty. Some of the noisy, reeling seamen were
heading for Red Gull Pier, where
small craft could be cheaply hired to ferry them out to vessels moored in
deep water. Snudge followed a gang of them, keeping his head down and his hand on his sword hilt.
The sky
was going grey now, and not many boats were manned and avail-able. The
returning sailors piled into the last pair of them, and the boatmen promptly
cast off and rowed away over the oily-calm water, leaving the boy standing on
the dock cursing through clenched teeth.
"May
I be of service, messire?" said a voice behind Snudge.
He
turned and the light of a nearly spent torch mounted on a pole showed him a smiling, rather portly man of
medium stature. He wore a brown leather tunic with gartered trews and a hooded
cloak of raggedy fur that muffled his hair and beard. His eyes were kindly.
"Do
you have a boat?" Snudge asked, after a moment's hesitation.
"If
you have the hire of it, young lord. Three silver pennies, no matter how many
are carried." The boatman had a slight foreign accent and his voice was
unexpectedly cultured.
"Good,"
said Snudge. "There's only me."
"Which
ship are you bound for?"
He had
a story ready: The Wronged Lover. "No ship, goodman." He touched his breast. "I carry some
tokens—of value only to a poor scorned and wounded heart—that I wish to cast
into the sea so that I may forget ever having met . . . a certain lady. I will
pay your fee gladly, twice over, if you'll take me to some deep spot in the bay where I can be
certain that no current or tidal flux will ever bring these forlorn objects to the
surface again."
The
boatman nodded. "I know such a spot. But you must swear to me that it's not your own self you intend
to cast overboard. I won't be a party to suicide."
"I
swear by Bazekoy's Bones that I won't jump. I just have to get rid of these damned things."
The boatman
cocked his head, and his eyes caught the gleam of the torch guttering above the
quay. Or did they?
"Are you certain you won't regret throwing the
tokens away?" he inquired. "Absolutely," said Snudge. "Let's go. I want to get this
over with."
The boat
was a sturdy sailing dinghy with a raked mast, such as was favored as a tender or
auxiliary craft by the big trading schooners of
"You are not a native
of Cathra," Snudge said to the skipper.
"You're
very observant, young lord. Nay—I'm of Wave-Harrier stock, but living in Cala now,
and eking out a living as best I can. You were fortunate to find me at Red Gull Pier. I've been doing other work of
late, hardly-taking to the water at all."
"Are . . . your people
back in
"There's
always the sea to feed us Harriers, but folk who work the gold and opal mines will
just scrape by this third bad winter. Thanks be to the God of the Depths, the Wolf's Breath is belching its last. By
the time the Boreal Moon wanes, the skies of my homeland will be clear
again."
"You're certain?"
Snudge was both astounded and skeptical.
"Oh, yes," said
the rotund skipper with supreme confidence, and for some reason the boy didn't press him further about the
matter, nor did he feel like asking him any more casual questions. It
was getting very cold now that they were farther from land, and the sky was
lightening, beginning to dim the stars.
"Are
we almost there?" he finally asked. "I really don't have much time
left."
"This
is the place." The Tarnian came about, spilled wind from the sail, and then lowered it. "I can't anchor here. Better do
what you came for." The dinghy rocked in the light chop. The wind had gone
dead.
Snudge opened
his belt-wallet and gingerly fished out Concealer by its thong. The pendant
moonstone dangled from his fingers, and for an instant he thought he saw a faint greenish glow. Averting his eyes,
he held the sigil over the gunwale.
"Are
you sure you want to do that?" the boatman said softly. "Look out
there. They're waiting to take it."
Snudge
lifted his gaze and gasped. Three forms were rising from the dark wavelets not a stone's throw away. They were
almost man-shaped but consider-ably more bulky than humankind, with
enormous shoulders, peculiarly shaped heads, and wideset bulging eyes that
shone scarlet-gold, like coals in a black-smith's
forge. As the boy stared at them, struck rigid with terror, the creature
in
the
center began approaching the boat, extending a tentacular limb with a
four-fingered hand at the end of it.
Hanging
from a cord around its wide neck was a glowing sigil.
"Stop," the
Tarnian skipper commanded in a loud voice. He held high an object like a short
club, fashioned of ivory and gold. "Do you know me?"
The
thing paused. For a moment it was still. Then it reared up, boneless arms flung violently
toward the sky and fanged mouth wide open. It roared, shocking Snudge to
quivering life, then fell back into the sea with a tremendous splash. The
rocking boat was drenched with icy spray.
"You
are Red Ansel," it cried in a rasping bellow, like storm-surf on a rocky shore. Its teeth
gleamed in the halflight as its grotesque mouth formed the Cathran words with difficulty "Give the thief to us.
Give back our sacred Coldlight Stones."
"Go
below and wait until I summon you," said the shaman.
The monster uttered another
frustrated roar. It subsided slowly, its baleful gaze lingering above the
surface before finally submerging. The other two creatures also disappeared.
Ansel turned a mild face to
Snudge. In his eyes, the glow
of talent was more powerful than the boy had ever known before. "They are
Salka. The sigils were created by their wise ones in an era long gone to
conjure the power of the Beaconfolk. Their
language is still used to empower the stones. Once, there were countless
thousands of Salka and they ruled the
"I—I've
heard the legends." Snudge had jerked Concealer back into the boat. It lay on the
thwart beside him.
"Beynor
sent these three. If you'd gone out in an ordinary boat, you and its skipper would have
been eaten alive, and the sigil and the book would have been taken back
to the Conjure-King."
"He
knew just what I'd do," Snudge said bitterly. "The Mossbelly bastard!
He played me like a farthing flute!"
Ansel smiled. "I think he's rather afraid of you.
Wild talents are messy to deal with. Especially one pledged to serve a pivotal
figure such as Conrig Wincantor, who has Bazekoy's eye watching him. And
mine."
Snudge uttered a hollow laugh.
"I'd be dead, just as Beynor planned it. Why are you telling me this? Who are you, Red Ansel?"
"I'm the High Shaman of
Tarn, and I was summoned from that country by Princess Maudrayne to ease King
Olmigon's suffering. I stayed in Cala When the king went journeying to Zeth
Abbey, and I was most intrigued when you arrived with Prince Conrig's party,
carrying a sigil. Wild talents aren't common, not even in my country, and one
possessed of a dead moonstone who
received dream visitations from Beynor of Moss was something extraordinary. I
windwatched you as you rifled Kilian's library—"
"But
that's impossible!"
The
shaman shook his head benignly. "Not for me. I watched you and I consulted my Source
to discover where my duty lay. Was it proper for me to let you die, one way or another, or was I obligated to
save you to serve a higher purpose?"
Snudge
gawped at him, unable to speak.
"Imagine
my surprise when I was instructed not only to save your foolhardy young life, but also to help you to empower the sigil
called Concealer." "What!"
"Do
you remember Beynor's instructions?"
Snudge nodded fearfully, casting an oblique glance at the
moonstone beside him.
"And do you recall the words for `thank you' in the
Salkan tongue?" "MO TENGALAH
SHERUV."
"Well
said. Now take out the book you have concealed beneath your shirt and hang Concealer around your
neck Perform the Light Summoning as you did before, using the proper words—but with one difference
only: When asked for your name, reply `Snudge.' It is, and is not, your true
name, and the ambiguity will protect you from the more deadly jest of the Beaconfolk."
Snudge
said, "Ansel, I'm afraid."
"Of
course you are, and rightly so. You will suffer pain in the sigil's empowering. But your
royal master, Conrig, will have great need of this stone's magic one day soon,
and it is your duty to provide it. You can refuse, of course, and I'll take charge of the thing myself and safely dispose
of it. But think, lad! Will you let
timidity and fear deprive your master of a great boon?"
"I—I
am no coward. But I fear that Beynor will tell Kilian that I have his book and a sigil. Even if that doesn't happen, the
Royal Alchymist may deduce that I'm talented because I can't be windwatched. He'll betray me
to the Brethren—if he doesn't kill me out of hand. Either way, I'll no longer
be able serve my prince."
"Beynor
can't be sure you have his sigil. As for the book, you'll have no need of it after the Light Summoning.
I'll take care of it."
The boy
hesitated as he considered what-to do, then remembered something else the Conjure-King had said. "Do you know
that Vra-Kilian has two baskets of sigils hidden within a strongbox in his sanctum? There
must be scores of the things! Beynor suggested that I steal them."
The
shaman rose from his seat in the stern and was silhouetted against the twilit sky. The dinghy remained
rock-solid in the water. "I suggest you do no such thing," Ansel said softly, "not if you
value your soul. Come now, Deveron Austrey! Make your choice. Either give me sigil and book, or else
dare the Lights."
Snudge
took a great breath. "I'll do it."
When
the Summoning was successfully accomplished and Concealer hung harmlessly
around his neck, faintly aglow with life, Snudge sank back onto the thwart
trembling in every limb like a beaten dog. Tears coursed down his cheeks.
"I'm still alive," he whispered in wonder.
"Of
course you are," Ansel said.
"The
sigil doesn't hurt now." He wiped his face with his sleeve.
"There is pain only when you use it, and then
nothing like so much as when the stone was first empowered. Concealer is a
lesser stone. Nevertheless, I strongly advise you not to conjure it except
under the most grave circumstances. Even though the Lights don't know your true
name, there's still a certain danger of their interfering." He handed the
boy a small wash-leather sack. "Cover the stone with this as you wear it.
Your comrades would be disconcerted-by its pale glow, and if one of them
touched it he might be badly hurt—especially if he tried to take it from you.
Keep the stone out of sight always."
Snudge complied, then tucked the bagged moonstone under
his shirt. "Am I to tell Prince Conrig that now I can command Iscannon's
sigil?"
"Better not. Let him know you still have it, if you
must. Say you're keeping it just in case you discover how to make it work someday. It wouldn't do if
he were to think the
sigil could be used with impunity for commonplace spying. When circumstances dictate,
you'll have to reveal its empowerment to him. But better later than
sooner."
"I
understand." I think .. .
"Give
me the book now. It's time we were out of here."
Snudge handed the small volume over and the shaman held
it high. "SHALKYE, GRAYD KALEET!" he intoned.
The moonstone disk on the book's cover blazed a blinding
green. A dozen ells away, three monstrous shapes vaulted out of the water,
booming louder than harpooned bull sea lions. One of them had a coruscating
emerald star at its neck. They fell back with splashes that tossed the boat and
vanished again.
"Codders!"
said Snudge. "Are they gone for good?"
"I don't recommend you take any sea voyages
soon," said Red Ansel of Tarn, with a short laugh.
He hoisted the sail, and a smart breeze sprang up
obediently, carrying them back to the shore as the eastern sky warmed in the
dawn.
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