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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 Cala Palace has a use for the ancient book he kept hidden there.

"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 Cala Palace. He had no notion of who might have taken it while he was away on the pilgrimage.

"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. Cala Palace is enormous! I can windwatch Kilian, but he and his wind-bags can't scry me, any more than you can. If necessary, I'll stay out of reach in Conrig's apartments until his force leaves for—for the north country. I'm the Prince Heritor's liege man, damn your eyes, not a paltry servant!"

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 Great Pass, and take a lot of fine warriors along with him to hell. And you, too, unless you re-enlist on the winning side.

"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 Cala Palace would faze the Royal Alchymist. Beynor had said that sigils couldn't be scried. But the book might not fall under that exemption, even if the moonstone on its cover did.

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 Cala Bay, before another hour struck on the palace chimes.

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 Square Tower where the household knights, squires, and palace guardsmen lived. The tower also housed the armory and the cells for high-ranking prisoners. It was a comfortless place where the walls had no tapestries and the leaded windows no drapes, only strong oak shutters that would be closed when the terrible Hammer and Anvil storms of winter finally returned and smashed the lands around Cala Bay between them. A single hanging oil-lamp at the far end of the passage lit the juncture with another corridor, as well as the stairs leading down to the warriors' common rooms.

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 Tarn. It was by no means the usual sort of nondescript puddle-skimmer engaged in the Cala Bay ferry trade. Snudge expected her skipper to row, but no sooner had they settled in than a fair breeze sprang up. The boatman hoisted a striped sail and they moved off swiftly, giving a wide berth to the men o' war riding at anchor.

"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 Tarn suffering because of the ashfall?"

"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 island of High Blenholme. Human invaders killed off many of them because they're slow-moving and awkward on land, and drove the rest away. A few Salka still live in the Great Fen of Moss, but most of them have retreated to the Dawntide Isles, far away to the east."

"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."

 Text Box: courtesy ..."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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