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fifteen
Vra-Kilian Blackhorse, Royal Alchymist of Cathra, had
gone briefly to his rooms after the king's cavalcade returned home from the
pilgrimage, intending to change his dusty garments, refresh himself, and then
attend upon the ailing Olmigon, making yet another attempt to learn the
oracle's response to the Question.
Almost immediately he discovered that someone had been
inside his inner sanctum—not once, but nine times during the three weeks
he was away. A simple mechanical device concealed in the doorframe tripped each
time the door was opened, making a small mark on a black wax tablet; the device
reset itself each time the door closed. Its operation was so unobtrusive that
it was beneath the notice of any thief—whether or not he possessed arcane
ability.
With a sinking heart, Vra-Kilian had hastened to open
his four windsight-secure cabinets to see whether anything had been taken.
Nothing appeared to be missing except the small book that gave a condensed
description of sigils and their operation. He took the baskets of moonstones to
his worktable and counted them twice, but all of them were there, as were the
large volumes dealing with Beaconfolk magic, written in the Salkan tongue.
Kilian muttered a curse as he left his sanctum, poured
a goblet of wine to ease his nerves, and settled into a cushioned armchair to
think. Could an agent of Prince Beynor have insinuated himself into the palace
during his absence? It hardly seemed likely. Why would a Mosslander thief have
taken only the small book—the one written mostly in the Cathran language—and
left the more valuable Salkan volumes and the priceless sigils themselves
behind?
Beynor
did covet those sigils desperately, but he had no notion of where they were
hidden, nor did he know precisely how many moonstones Kilian possessed. The
alchymist had hinted to the boy-wizard that there were fifty in the collection,
while the trove actually included more than twice that number. They had
originally come from a prehistoric Salkan grave, discovered by another Royal
Alchymist of Cathra, a certain Vra-Darasilo Lednok, over seven hundred years
ago. That long-dead Brother of Zeth had compromised his vows by preserving
artifacts of Beacon-folk magic; but Darasilo, who was both a scholar and a
devotee of magical history, simply could not bring himself to destroy such a
treasure. Instead he had hidden them away. What was the real harm, when both
sigils and spells could never be used? Darasilo bequeathed his hoard to his
successor, advising him to destroy the books and the moonstones if he deemed it
necessary.
The successor did not. Neither did the Royal
Alchymists who followed him in office. Instead, Darasilo's collection was
passed along under a strict oath of secrecy. Venerated as relics of ancient,
unattainable magic, they were marveled at and morbidly speculated about, but
were never objects of temptation. To empower those signs would require the
cooperation of the few remaining Salka, hideous man-eaters whose hatred of
humans was legendary. What Brother of Zeth would risk both his life and his
immortal soul to acquire magic so perilous?
None . . . until Vra-Kilian Blackhorse.
He'd only conceived the great notion a little over a
year ago, when the political situation on the island had come to a boil
because of the continuing curse of the Wolf's Breath. Kilian's influence in the
Privy Council was clearly waning as the Prince Heritor championed the push for
Sovereignty. Conrig's animosity towards Kilian was immutable, and the alchymist
realized that he had no chance of retaining his high office if Conrig became
king.
One winter evening, as the wizard brooded over the
dead sigils in his sanctum, knowing that even one of them, conjured into life,
might give him the power to reverse his fortunes, the brilliant idea came to
him. It was so simple that he could hardly believe that none of his
predecessors had considered it. Or perhaps they had, but lacked the ingenuity
or courage to follow through .. .
Unlike the people of the southern part of the island,
who had long since lost any contact with the uncanny amphibian beings conquered
by Emperor Bazekoy, the folk of Moss still shared territory with the Salka. The
Glaumerie Guild knew the Salkan language, and so did the royal family.
Rothbannon, the first Conjure-King, had taken particular pains to ingratiate
himself with Salka shamans. How the fearless sorcerer had acquired the Seven
Stones from the monsters and used them to found a kingdom was a cornerstone of
Moss's brief history.
The rulers who succeeded Rothbannon over the next
century proved less expert in dealing with the dreaded Beaconfolk and the
marvelous sigils they empowered. After several appalling mishaps, the Seven
Stones were locked away by the Guild wizards, to be used only in case of some
overwhelming national emergency—which fortunately never occurred, Moss being
such an insignificant backwater of the otherwise lively island.
The ultracautious tradition had finally been broken by
Linndal and his wife Taspiroth, formidable magickers both, who once again made
use of the Stones. But the Conjure-Queen miscalculated and died atrociously on
a whim of the Coldlight Army, and her husband's mind foundered as he witnessed
her fate. He deactivated the sigils and locked them away.
Which left their children.
Beynor and Ullanoth, like their parents before them,
had been taught the Salkan language as part of their thaumaturgical education,
so that they would be able to command the Seven Stones, should the need arise.
Kilian was aware that the brother and sister were implacable rivals, Beynor
favored to inherit the throne and already experimenting with the Stones as his
parents had done, Ullanoth choked with bitter resentment until as rumor had it
the spirit of her mother had gifted her with a few minor sigils of her own.
How that must have dismayed the Conjure-Prince! In his
own callow way, he was as politically ambitious as Conrig Wincantor. Kilian
knew for a fact that it was Beynor who had convinced King Achardus of Didion to
sell warships to Stippen, Foraile, and Andradh, worming his way into the
barbarian ruler's confidence. The boy-wizard hadn't caused the Wolf's Breath,
but he'd known how to take advantage of it by lying to his gullible neighbors
and pretending to powers he didn't possess.
In short, Beynor of Moss was the very person
Vra-Kilian needed.
He had bespoken the aspiring young man, offering him
twenty-five precious sigils—"half the number I inherited from my
predecessor"—in exchange for Salkan language lessons.
Dumfounded, Beynor had tentatively agreed. But he'd
proved shrewder in negotiation than Kilian had anticipated, postponing the
actual fulfillment of the bargain again and again. He refused to meet Kilian in
person for fear the older man would take magical advantage of him.
And so a temporary impasse was reached. Neither Royal
Alchymist nor Conjure-Prince trusted the other, with good reason; but by
unspoken agreement, they became co-conspirators, seeking mutual advantage in
the increasingly chaotic politics of the island, and hoping that fate would
show them the way to achieve their separate goals.
Kilian's manipulation of King Olmigon eventually
culminated in the Edict of Sovereignty massacre; while Beynor (unbeknownst to
Kilian) pressed Didion to form an alliance with the Continental nations. The
odd bedfellows had been drawn closer by Prince Conrig's unexpected
teaming up with Ullanoth and his decision to invade Didion.
When Kilian learned of the secret council of war to be
held at Castle Van-guard, he had informed Beynor, who suggested sending one of
his wizards to spy on the meeting, hidden by the Concealer. If the opportunity
arose, Iscannon was also instructed to inflict serious injury on Conrig—but not
kill him, lest Olmigon appoint a new heir—effectively ending the threat of an
invasion.
Iscannon's death and the theft of his sigil had thrown
the plans awry. The alchymist feared that Conrig had learned of Beynor's
complicity from Princess Ullanoth. Perhaps the prince also suspected him of
treason .. .
"And now this mysterious intruder!" the
Royal Alchymist exclaimed aloud.
Could he have been sent by Conrig? Had the Prince
Heritor ordered his brother Stergos to pry into Kilian's things, hoping to
incriminate him? The little book of Beaconfolk magic was a thing forbidden to
the Brethren. Perhaps it alone had been taken in hopes that Kilian would not
notice its loss. Conrig might have planned to use the thing to discredit Kilian
in the eyes of his Order, paving the way for the alchymist's disgrace and
banishment from court.
There was a way to find out.
Kilian resumed his seat, closed his eyes, and began a
windsearch—first of the Doctor Arcanorum's chambers, and then of the prince's.
The purloined book was not there. Clenching his teeth, he began to search the
rest of the palace. But even a superficial overview of the sprawling edifice
took over an hour to perform and proved to be fruitless and doubly frustrating.
Searching beyond the palace was not within his powers.
While Kilian wasted time hunting for the book, Prince
Conrig managed to reach the king's bedside before him and leave orders
forbidding him entrance. I've probably lost the game, the Royal Alchymist told
himself, as he waited outside the royal bedchamber. All I can do now is brazen
it out and salvage what I can from the wreckage.
Later, after King Olmigon and the prince had conferred
and reconciled, Kilian had been forced to accompany Conrig to a meeting of the
Privy Council, attended only by the principal members. There Conrig had
displayed the writ affirming that he was now the only one who addressed the
Council with King Olmigon's authority. The Royal Alchymist would no longer have
a seat after tonight. Hence-forth, he would only administer arcane affairs, as
his predecessors had.
In a state of eerie tranquillity, Vra-Kilian had returned
to his rooms. He tried to bespeak Beynor of Moss and tell him of his abrupt
demotion and the book's theft, but the young wizard was not disposed to answer.
All Kilian could do was have wind-converse with Ridcanndal, Grand Master of the
Glaumerie Guild, and request that the Conjure-Prince contact him as soon as
possible. Then Kilian stripped off his garments, downed a sleeping potion, and
threw himself wearily into bed. He fell asleep almost at once.
The windspoken voice of Beynor did not wake him until
nearly six in the morning, and its tone was ominous.
Vra-Kilian, my friend, you are in very serious
trouble. But perhaps you already realize that.
Yes, but he still had to put a good face on it!
"I know I've been dismissed from the Privy
Council by Prince Conrig, but this may be only a temporary setback. I also know
that a clever thief has stolen one of my books of Beaconfolk magic. The other
two volumes are safe, as are the sigils and all the rest of my things. There's
no trace of the missing book within
You're wrong. The book was taken by Deveron Austrey,
Prince Conrig's personal agent, a boy of sixteen years. He knows now that you
have large numbers of sigils in your possession and will certainly report this
to his royal master.
"But—that's unbelievable! I remember this Deveron
now. He's only the prince's footman. How could a mere housecarl get past my
guardian novices and intricate locks? Did you windwatch him in the act?"
No. Deveron is a powerful wild talent which is why he
serves Conrig. His arcane abilities cannot be detected by an adept examiner,
and it's impossible to windwatch him. I'm now certain that he was the one who
discovered my spy Iscannon at work in Castle Vanguard and slew him. For this
service Conrig created the boy an armiger while you were away on the king's
pilgrimage.
"Blessed Zeth ..."
Even worse, I'm certain Deveron took Iscannon's
invisibility sigil. His motive for stealing your book was to discover how to
use the moonstone himself
"The boy's not in the palace now, because the
book's not here and he'd surely keep it with him. As I said, I windsearched for
the book hours ago and found no trace of it. Tomorrow my loyal followers will
track down the damned brat, wherever he's hidden himself in the city, using
ordinary means. They'll slit his throat and retrieve both the book
and the sigil. Conrig will be none the wiser if we dispose of the body—"
You don't know that Deveron's left the palace. I told
you that he can't be wind-watched! If his innate body-shielding talent is
strong enough, you may not be able to descry the book as he carries it about.
You're in great danger, Vra-Kilian, and you must flee at once.
"Not so fast! If the boy had already betrayed me,
Conrig's Heart Companions would have been battering my chamber door with the
hilts of their swords, rousting me out of bed. Nothing of the sort has
happened. No doubt the young knave didn't want to disturb his royal master's
sleep and decided to wait until morning to give his report. Before he can
betray me, I'll have my men seize him. He'll vanish as though he'd never
existed?'
You're a shortsighted clodpate, Kilian! I told you
that Conrig himself authorized the boy to invade your sanctum. The prince
already suspects you of betraying his council of war to me. He's on to you.
This is why he removed you from the Privy Council. Escape while you can. Make
your way to Moss by ship. My Glaumerie Guild and I will welcome your great
talent.
"But I can't leave without my things—my magical
apparatus and reference volumes. They're beyond price!"
So is your neck, my friend. Find a way to take the
sigils and the Salkan magical books with you, but forget the rest. Slip away
from the palace immediately. Conrig and his cohorts may not act against you at
once because of your high position and august lineage—but act they will. Be
assured of it.
"You you are able to visualize this dire outcome
through your sorcery?" Silly old fool! I don't need magic to read your
future. Do as I tell you, or go to hell!
"Prince Beynor, I must protest, I'm willing to
make allowances for your youth and impatience, but you have no call to speak to
me so disrespectfully. I demand an apology."
I am not a prince any longer, Vra-Kilian, but
Conjure-King of Moss according to the decree of my late father. And kings
apologize to no one. Farewell
Kilian listened, but the windthread had been severed.
"Damnation," he said. "So it all comes tumbling
down. I thought I might have a bit more time."
He felt anger and he felt fear, but both of these
useless emotions were readily quashed by his invincible will. He was Kilian
Blackhorse, the most powerful member of a great family, archwizard of the
realm, the royal counselor who had con-trolled a king like a doll on a string.
He had faced challenges before and conquered them. He'd find a way to prevail
this time as well.
He realized that it was too late for him to flee. His
betrayal by the boy Deveron would soon be an accomplished fact. If he, Kilian,
disappeared, the palace guard would simply raise a hue and cry throughout the
city. Even if he did manage to coerce or bribe some ocean-going skipper to
carry him to Moss, there was nothing to pre-vent Prince Conrig from sending a
fast naval frigate after him. A pursuing warship could easily stay out of range
of his defensive magic and bombard his own vessel with tarnblaze. And that diabolical
stuff could not be deflected with ordinary magic.
Why hadn't Beynor windspoken the bad tidings earlier,
when escape might have been possible? The question had no answer, but Kilian
was sure that the last thing the newly minted Conjure-King would want was for
the secret trove of moonstones to fall into Conrig's hands. Conrig: in league
with the sister Beynor hated more than anyone alive! No, the young sorcerer was
still Kilian's ally, at least until he got his hands on Darasilo's moonstones.
What to do? The sigils had to be hidden at once, in a
place where no adept—especially one loyal to Beynor—could ever find them.
... Yes, of course!
Shivering in the chill, Vra-Kilian left his bed, put
on fur-lined house shoes and a heavy robe, threw billets of wood on the dead
ashes in the fireplace, and conjured a brisk blaze with his talent. Outside the
windows of his bedchamber, dawn already brightened the sky, and he could see
lamps moving in the corridors of the opposite wing of the palace. Servants were
up and about, carrying cans of hot water for morning ablutions, bringing baskets
of fuel to be left outside the chambers of the nobles, lighting braziers and
lamps in the common rooms. Before long kitchen boys would tote trays of
breakfast to the fortunate. Valets, ladies' maids, messengers, and courtiers of
every stripe would be bustling in all directions as
I know what must be done, Vra-Kilian told himself, as
he made his way to his sitting room. But first, the safety measures. It would
be a disaster if Prince Con-rig's men burst in before he was ready.
He checked the tripod and the carved malachite charm
that generated the spell of couverture around his private chambers. He had
installed it before going to sleep, and it was still functioning properly. No
ordinary adept could possibly windwatch him through its shield. Please,
God—that included the accursed Deveron Austrey!
So that left the barricade against physical incursion
to be erected. He fetched a certain flask from a locked cabinet, let five drops
of sizzling liquid fall into a stoneware dish where they formed an
evil-smelling puddle, and pronounced a complex incantation.
Foom!
The flash was dazzling, and the smoke cleared in a
moment. Now the walls and doors of his private rooms were sealed, impervious to
all but the most advanced sorcery or superior siege engines. He'd left the
chimney flues unconjured for obvious reasons, as well as the drafty windows.
Many an incautious wizard had smothered himself by neglecting the elementary
laws of natural science! The flooring was also left unprotected by magic, but
for a very different reason.
I'm hungry, he realized. Well, there was probably
enough time to eat, and who knew when he'd get his next meal?
He kindled a larger fire in the sitting room and sat
down at the table in front of it, where the food he'd had no appetite for last
night still waited: spicy finger sausages, two kinds of fine cheese, bread
rolls, crocks of bilberry conserve and butter, a silver ewer of mead. As he ate
and considered the situation, he felt confident that his life was in no
immediate danger—at least, not from the King's Justice. Young Beynor didn't
understand how Cathran law worked. No one could prove treason against him.
Banishment at the royal pleasure, however, was a very real possibility. He
would suffer a gaffing comedown after having been the shadow-ruler of Cathra
for nearly twenty years, but at least his life and dignity would remain intact.
And the future always beckoned.
However, mending his devastated fortunes would be
impossible without the moonstones and the books. Lacking them, he might as well
be dead. With them—and with the grudging assistance of the Conjure-King of
Moss—he would eventually recover all that was about to be lost. And much more.
Vra-Kilian finished his meal and assembled the
necessary tools, then unlocked and entered his violated inner sanctum. The room
was very dark and he lit a candelabrum. The iron-bound small cabinet still
stood with its door open, as he'd left it, and the sigils were on the
worktable. For a lingering moment he fingered the cool stones in their
baskets—so wonder-working, if only they were alive! And the books, the other
secret legacy of the imprudent Darasilo--once tantalizing Kilian with their
inaccessible learning, but perhaps soon susceptible to decryption.
He put the things away, closed and locked the cabinet,
then took four small quartz crystals from a blue velvet bag and placed them in
a precise square on the container's top. The bag also yielded a larger prism of
quartz, longer than his index finger. He pointed it at the cabinet and said,
"Rise!"
The heavy oaken safe-box lifted from the floor and
hovered a few inches above it.
"Follow," Vra-Kilian commanded, gesturing
with the long prism. He left the sanctum and went to his bedroom, with the
ensorcelled cabinet floating obediently behind. Once there he attacked his
bed, tossing pillows aside, tearing off coverlets, feather-tick, and linen,
finally hauling the mattress off the undernet and shoving it out of the way. He
knelt and swiftly began to untie each leather thong from its hole in the
massive bedframe, muttering knot-abolishing spells as he worked. When three
sides were free, he lifted the netting and laid it carefully to one side.
The space beneath the bed was clean; his manservant
knew better than to let dust accumulate on the floor. Vra-Kilian knelt, peered
closely at the wooden parquet-blocks for a moment, extended his arms, and
simultaneously pressed two blocks spaced almost four feet apart. The bits of wood
seemed identical to the others except for two minute protuberances, but as the
wizard depressed them there was a loud clack. A section of the floor
began to sink, hinged like a trapdoor, revealing an opening and a flight of
stone steps.
They led to a musty crypt that held two roughly hewn
tombs—one containing the skeleton of a woman, the other the remains of a small
child. The names
JOVALA and CHALLO
were chiseled crudely on the lids, and on the wall above them was the date
C.Y. 413. Vra-Kilian suspected that the long-dead Darasilo had something to do
with the tomb occupants. After all, they had been interred beneath chambers
that had traditionally belonged to the Royal Alchymists of Cathra since a
century after Bazekoy's conquest. The existence of the crypt was another of the
secrets passed on to him by his late predecessor. Kilian had never thought to
make use of it before, but now it seemed predestined by some higher power to be
the perfect hiding place for the sigils and books, until he should find a way
to retrieve them.
He pointed the quartz prism at the cabinet and said, "Follow."
It hopped the bedframe and wafted down into the hole
in the floor, dogging his footsteps. He led it behind the tombs, retrieved the
four small quartz crystals from its top, then went up and closed the crypt's
trapdoor.
By the time he had restored his bed to its former
state, he felt exhausted and irritated. There was brandy in the sitting room,
so he decided to return there and sit by the fire to await the inevitable. But
first he abolished the enchantment that protected his rooms from assault. He
kept the windwatching shield in place. They'd think it odd if he left himself
completely vulnerable.
He settled back in the soft chair. Outside, the palace
chimes sounded the seventh hour of morning.
There'd be a trial, of course. But what could Conrig
really prove? The sigils and the forbidden tomes were safely hidden now,
impossible to windwatch. It was Kilian's word against that of an upstart former
servant-boy that the things existed at all, and the little book could be
explained away.
For treason, the evidence was even flimsier. No one
could prove he'd intercepted and read the letter from Conrig to Duke Tanaby
that convened the council of war. No one-save possibly the wretched
Deveron—could connect him to Beynor of Moss and the sorcerer-spy slain at
Castle Vanguard. Would a tribunal of Royal Justices deign to accept the hearsay
evidence of a wild talent, even one employed by Prince Conrig? Would Conrig
even permit his secret snudge to testify, knowing that thereby his anonymity
would be lost and his value forfeit?
No.
But there was another peril Kilian might not be able
to evade. False witnesses, alas, were always procurable. Kilian had used them
himself to dispose of certain enemies. But even if he were found guilty, his
loving sister, Queen Cataldise, would never permit the Royal Executioner to lop
off his head. He would whisper to her the penalty he had decided would best
suit his purpose: confinement in Zeth Abbey at the king's pleasure.
Zeth Abbey, so close to the Didionite frontier.
Zeth Abbey, whose ruler, Abbas Noachil, was in his
ninety-first year of life. Zeth Abbey, where so many of his loyal old comrades
still lived and worked, numbers of them the beneficiaries of his personal
generosity.
For the first time on that disastrous morning,
Vra-Kilian smiled. His eyes closed and in another moment he was fast asleep,
and remained so until he heard a loud pounding on his door.
He rose, unlocked it, and pulled it wide open. Vra-Stergos
stood there white-faced, holding high a golden reliquary that held one of
Emperor Bazekoy's blue pearls. Behind him knelt three ranks of red-robed
Brethren with arms folded on their breasts.
Stergos intoned: "All harmful spells
avaunt!"
There was a bright flash and a sound of clumping
mailed feet. When Kilian's bedazzled vision cleared, he saw that Conrig's ten
Heart Companions had taken a stand in front of the magickers. They wore full
armor, and their two-handed broadswords were pointed straight at him.
"Good morning," said the Royal Alchymist,
nodding austerely. He was now helpless to attack the others with magic.
Prince Conrig stepped forward, unarmored, hatless, and
wearing his usual black clothing. His sword was sheathed. "Vra-Kilian
Blackhorse, you are under arrest. The charge—for the moment—is disrupting the
King's Peace." He proffered the warrant.
The wizard began to laugh. "Well, that'll serve
your purpose tidily enough! Do you intend to lock me in fetters?"
"No,"
said Conrig, beckoning to one of the Brothers, who held a small wooden box. He
opened it and took out a perforated piece of iron, like a bit of unsharpened
knife-blade hung on a string. The voided cross of Saint Zeth's gammadion had
been scratched on it. It was a crude replica of the gold amulet worn by every
member of the Mystical Order, including Vra-Kilian. At the sight of the thing,
the Royal Alchymist tensed.
"You know what this is," Conrig said,
holding it out. "Take off your own gammadion and replace it with this, or
we will slay you as you stand there."
Kilian obeyed. As the iron touched his breast, a red
radiance flared from it. He groaned, staggered, and would have collapsed if
Count Sividian and Count Feribor had not stepped forward to support him.
"You are now bound to your Order's will,"
Conrig said, "and your talent quenched until it pleases Abbas Noachil to
restore it. We take you into custody with his permission. Now give me the keys
to your chambers."
With some difficulty, Kilian detached them from his
belt and handed them over. "These . . . will open everything within.
Search without fear. I have prepared no magical man-traps."
"We'll make certain of that." Conrig turned
to the knights. "Bring the former Royal Alchymist to the council chamber,
and his three cronies as well. I'll follow as soon as Vra-Stergos and I perform
a quick search of his rooms."
Sividian and Feribor still held Kilian's arms. He
suffered them to lead him through the library, flanked by the other Companions,
past the ranks of wide-eyed Brethren. Kilian noted that poor Butterball,
Squinty, and Vinegar-Face were already in the custody of the Palace Guard.
Well, he'd see that they joined him in exile.
Count Sividian stepped ahead to unlock and inspect the
room where the three of them would wait until summoned, leaving Feribor alone
at Kilian's side. He asked softly, "Nephew, am Ito be put on trial at
once?"
A sardonic smile. "I believe so, Uncle. The
King's Grace has himself summoned the tribunal, and he will preside. You will
be allowed a single advocate to help plead your case. Perhaps you might think
on whom we might summon, as we await our summons to the council chamber."
Vra-Kilian smiled. "Oh, I've decided that
already." He regarded Feribor Blackhorse with new interest. Unlike his
indolent elder brother, he was a valiant warrior and a man of action. He was as
yet unmarried; too many potential brides knew his reputation. He was not a man
to be easily beguiled, but one who was reputedly ambitious and single-minded.
He might just do.
"Nephew," the alchymist said in a low voice,
"after many years of wielding power, I am about to go into eclipse. These
things happen to the best of us. But the day will come when my sun shines
again, and when it does, I'll be in a position to reward those who are my
friends. Reward them most generously."
Feribor
said, "I'll not help you escape. Such is impossible."
"I'm aware of that. I intend to call upon my
friends some time in the future. Perhaps several years from now. Maybe I count
upon you?"
The young man shrugged in disdain. "Probably not.
I don't need gold,
Uncle."
"Neither
do I offer it," said Vra-Kilian. "But what would you say
to the throne of Cathra?"
Feribor
stared at him, his face without expression. He said nothing.
"In time, it may be yours; said the wizard.
"Listen carefully, for we have little time. The first thing you should
know is that Conrig's new armiger, Deveron Austrey, is a strong wild talent
..."
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