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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 Cala Palace. I did a windsearch. So the thief is probably long gone away. The book's loss is unfortunate, but hardly a catastrophe."

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 Cala Palace came fully awake with the rising sun.

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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