The Magestone Page 20

  Even below decks, I could not entirely seclude myself. Once the initial storm had passed, Brannun marched into my cabin, his arms laden with tally sticks and documents which he dropped upon my plank-rimmed bed. “See what you make of these cargo accounts,” he ordered. “Your master would not want you to idle away the time when you have such an opportunity to enlarge your store of trading knowledge.”

  I should have liked to have told him that I kept a steward to attend to such menial work, but in order to preserve my imposture, I strove to bring some order out of the poorly inscribed chaos. When Brannun blustered back in some hours later, I pointed out to him that his tally sticks proclaimed his cargo short four bales of woven goods when compared with his nearly unreadable loading lists.

  “You Dales traders,” Brannun declared, “always fretting over exact tallies.” He rattled my teeth with another buffet to my shoulder, and bellowed, “Come dine with me in my cabin! We can discuss the proper forms for keeping accounts.”

  It was during that meal that I nearly betrayed myself. While we were eating some moderately acceptable fish stew, I saw a large rat poke its head from behind a timber rib arching along the wall. Quite by habit, before I even thought, my hand drew and threw my belt knife, impaling the wretched beast.

  Brannun drew a sharp breath, and eyed me narrowly. “Where did you learn to throw a knife like that, young apprentice?” he growled.

  I cursed my muscles for acting on their own without my conscious direction. As abjectly as I could, I proffered my woeful supposed past experience. “For some years, I was kept as a slave in a castle in Alizon,” I explained. “It was miserably overrun by vermin. They kept no such fine beasts as your cats, so we slaves were forced to dispose of any rat we saw in that fashion. I crave your pardon for drawing my blade without your permission.”

  Brannun guffawed, and struck me such a clout across the narrow table that he nearly jolted me from the seating bench, which like the table, was secured to the deck with wooden pins. “Permission?” he roared. “I would I could toss a knife that swift and sure. I required some years to master my throwing ax—until I saw your toss just now, I rather fancied my speed. You must show my lads how you do it! I can see that your earlier practice had refined your skill so that you react to sudden motion glimpsed from the corner of the eye. Pray take care that you do not skewer our ship’s cat, or one of the smaller hands. We shall be obliged to address you as Kasyar-of-the-Fast-Knife!”

  After that near calamity, I attempted to guard my movements as well as my tongue. Such constant wariness, together with the long hours of confinement in my cabin, wore upon my temper. Curiously, one source of restful ease was the ship’s cat, whose acquaintance I made the morning following the rat incident.

  I had gone on deck to stretch my legs when Brannun bustled past; the man was always on his way somewhere aloft or below, forward or astern. Spying me, he stopped, and exclaimed, “Yonder comes our cat—Sea Foam, we call her—a prime ratter. Give her a few weeks, and you’ll have far fewer moving targets aboard to tempt your knife.”

  I turned to see a large, cream-colored cat regarding me with bright amber eyes. Not knowing exactly how one customarily approached such beasts, I knelt and extended my hand for it to sniff, as I would have done to a strange hound. It cocked its head at me, then stepped nimbly across the slanting deck to rub against my boots.

  “She likes the lad!” Brannun boomed approvingly. “Sea Foam’s always been a keen judge of character—doubtless recognizes a fellow master ratter.”

  For the remainder of the voyage, Sea Foam often visited me in my cabin, sometimes curling up on my bed, sometimes even sitting in my lap and purring like a real hound—a most singular animal.

  In addition to four more severe storms, we encountered some adverse winds that slowed our progress, but as the Moon of the Dire Wolf neared its close, the bleak horizon bar of bare water was replaced by the welcome uneven bulk of solid land. We had spent thirty-four days at sea, by my best judgment, for during the worst of the storms, it had been difficult to determine when day ended and night began.

  I had formed a hearty respect for Captain Brannun and his crew—and an equally hearty conviction that I preferred land travel to sea voyaging. The thought of motionless land or even a runaway horse beneath me had become increasingly attractive. I was ready to present my lamantine wood-questing tale to the traders of Vennesport.

  CHAPTER 29

  Kasarian–account of his journey across the Dales from Vennesport to the ruins beyond Ferndale (26th Day, Moon of the Dire Wolf–24th Day, Moon of Chordosh)

  It took three days for me to deliver all of Mereth’s remaining letters: two to kinsmen and two others to traders of her acquaintance. Initially, each of the recipients looked somewhat askance at me, but after reading her letters, they wholeheartedly extended themselves to organize the mounts and supplies I would need for my trip to the lands bordering the ill-reputed Waste. Each of the Dalesmen also inquired anxiously about Mereth. Only one of the traders was of her advanced age; the other three were a generation or more younger than she. They seemed to view her as an honored elder, and appeared genuinely concerned about how she had been received after her long journey across the sea. I assured them that she had been graciously welcomed at Lormt, where her extensive knowledge of kinship lists was highly praised. I did not mention her injuries. It was better that they thought her happily absorbed in scholarly pursuits . . . which she was, after a fashion.

  As Mereth had cleverly foreseen, both the ostensible trade goal of my quest, and more especially the area I proposed to search actively discouraged any serious offers by the Dalesfolk to accompany me. One of Mereth’s kinsmen, a whelp of her dam’s Line, made a halfhearted suggestion that he could try to engage a guide for me, but I asserted that Mereth’s personally-drawn maps were more than adequate to direct me to the vicinity where my master’s special map could be consulted. I hinted that my master preferred my mission to be solitary, and in a flash of inspiration, I confided that because of my unfortunate circumstances of birth in Alizon, I thought it advisable to avoid populated areas as much as possible. Once he had heard my explanation, her kinsman, looking both abashed and relieved, pressed upon me two hampers filled with all manner of gear to equip me for every calamity likely to befall an isolated rider. He urged me to exchange my riding and pack horses for mountain ponies once I reached Paltendale, and gave me a letter to request assistance from a wool trader of his acquaintance there. I attempted to pay him with some of my unmarked silver bars, but he obstinately refused to accept them, saying that Mereth’s letter clearly commanded what he called “family courtesy” to be extended to me. Since I was supposed to understand such Dales arrangements, I had to nod knowingly, but I expressed my gratitude for the consideration.

  On the Twenty-sixth Day of the Moon of the Dire Wolf, I set out on the road leading from Vennesport to Trevamper. Mereth had drawn for me a Dales map I could show openly, marked with bold lines linking the populated areas, but she had written a private advisory commentary for me to commit to memory so that I could choose less-traveled paths as I forged steadily northwestward.

  The Moon of the Dire Wolf fast gave way to the Moon of Chordosh as I toiled, often cursing the variable weather. A day might dawn cold and fair, but in the space of an hour, clouds could form and sweep down from the mountain ridges, pelting me with sleet, snow, or rain—sometimes it seemed that all three discomforts jostled for a turn at assailing the horses and me.

  Past Trevamper, there was nothing that could be termed a road, and since I had to shun any trails that exhibited signs of frequent use, my progress at times was maddeningly slow. I rode south of Dorndale, then climbed into the hills to the west as I avoided Haverdale. I sought a northerly course away from the Haverdale area, and scaled the steep flanks of the peaks separating Ithordale to the west from Fyndale to the east.

  By that time, I estimated that I must have ridden some sixty leagues at the least, and more than half the
Moon of Chordosh had passed. To eke out my supplies, I supplemented my diminishing store of journeycakes by hunting for game. The snares I set before I made camp near nightfall yielded occasional rabbits. I supped several times on a clumsy, slow-flying bird that roosted carelessly within my knife’s range.

  When I reached Paltendale, I scouted carefully before I descended the winding track into the dale. The wool merchant recommended to me back in Vennesport proved to be another garrulous fellow who talked incessantly about sheep. He did accept a silver bar when I told him I did not know how long I might be searching near the borders of the Waste, and I preferred to purchase his mountain ponies outright. After replenishing my supplies, he insisted upon walking with me as far as the edge of Paltendale. He warned me to beware of late spring snow slides from the higher slopes, then turned back, still prating about the countless vicissitudes besetting the scattered local flocks whose wool he planned to buy.

  I had never much cared for ponies in comparison with horses. I soon found that my new mount was a contrary beast which stubbornly pursued its own notions of the most desirable path. I almost regretted my lack of proper Alizonian spurs, and frequently did regret this pony’s total lack of proper Alizonian training. As we penetrated farther into the remote northwesterly high country, however, with its nameless valleys squeezed amid sheer peaks, I discovered that both animals were utterly reliable in their footing, especially on the treacherously narrow ledges and steep inclines. Considering the terrain, they were nearly as able as our Torgians. I resigned myself to the willful nature of my riding pony, and allowed it to set a prudent pace along any track it chose that led in my desired direction.

  Now that I drew nearer to the peaks and valleys that Mereth had described as adjoining Ferndale, I adopted a new nightly practice. Once I had settled the ponies and wrapped myself in my travel blanket and cloak, I would withdraw Elsenar’s jewel and hold it in my hand. I had not taken it out at all during the sea voyage, nor previously during the many weary leagues of transit across the Dales. At Lormt, when I had taken the jewel from Mereth, I had wondered whether its odious magic would again oppress me as it had done from just my mere initial sighting of it in Alizon. To my private relief, I had not noticed any worrisome intrusions into my dreams, nor signs of bodily weakness such as I had also briefly experienced in Alizon. I was, however, constantly aware of the stone’s physical presence. I could feel its hard shape through my tunic when I lay against it, but I had sensed no suspicious magical effects from it until I left Paltendale.

  As I rode into the trackless wilderness, I found my hand kept straying unbidden to my chest. When I camped that first night after parting from the wool merchant, I surprised myself by extracting the pendant from my innermost pocket and slipping the silver chain over my head. The stone seemed unusually chill, perceptible even through my glove, but I told myself it was likely due to the abnormal frost in the air. I slid the jewel inside my tunic against my shirt, and soon fell asleep. I did not dream directly about the jewel, as I had before in Alizon, but I did preserve into my waking the next morning an almost tangible impulse of . . . direction, a faint pulling sensation, as if a barely appreciable breeze was steadily nudging me farther to the north and west.

  After that night, I held the jewel each evening before sleeping. I realized with mingled dread and excitement that the tugging sensation was drawing me exactly in the direction indicated on Mereth’s final map—the map supposedly locating the site to be searched for lamantine wood. For the last four or five leagues, I no longer bothered to consult Mereth’s map to identify landmarks, for the jewel itself guided me straight to an eruption of gray, tumbled stones half buried by drifting snow. According to my tally of days, it was the Twenty-fourth Day of the Moon of Chordosh.

  I warily examined the deserted area around the ruins. The snowy surface was trackless, undisturbed save by the wind. I fed and watered the ponies, then tethered them loosely to some nearby evergreen branches so that they could pull free if I did not return. Using a bough broken from the same tree, I swept away the drifted snow until I uncovered the first of a flight of broad stone steps leading underground.

  The descending stairwell angled sharply to the left, widening out into a snow-choked landing, then plunging again down a more narrow passageway into darkness. I had brought several torches with me in my supply hamper, but as I turned back to fetch them, I suddenly hesitated. My hand reached to my chest, and before I consciously considered the motion, I found that I had lifted the chain off over my head, so that the jewel could swing freely from my fingers. It sparkled so brilliantly that I thought for an instant it was glowing with more than the natural light. When I advanced toward the shadowed stairway leading farther below, I could not deny the evidence of my eyes: the jewel was shedding a cold blue light of its own. I would require no ordinary torch to illumine my way.

  The deeper I descended, the brighter the pendant glowed, until it cast eerie shadows along the ancient stone walls of a large, bare chamber that opened outward at the foot of the stairs. As I raised the jewel to survey the space, it began to wax more and more radiant until I had to shield my eyes with my other hand.

  Abruptly, I knew, as clearly as if an icy blade had pierced my back, that I was no longer alone in the chamber. With a thrill of dread, I dropped my free hand to grasp my dagger hilt, but I was so stricken by the sight before me that I could not draw my weapon.

  The eldritch glare from the jewel fell upon the figure of a tall, dark-haired man garbed in pale robes of a curiously antiquated style. Before I could properly focus on him, the jewel flared with such unbearable brightness that I almost dropped it. To my intense dismay, I felt the chain press against my flesh as the pendant slowly but firmly loosed itself from my grasp. I could not completely stifle a cry of disbelief as the blazing stone floated through the empty air toward the robed figure, which had raised a hand in obvious summons.

  I was further appalled to realize that I could discern the far wall’s masonry lines through the very substance of the figure. My opponent was horridly transparent, as if his lineaments were drawn upon a vertical sheet of river ice. As the jewel halted just beyond the figure’s outstretched fingers, its painful radiance subsided to a level more acceptable to the eyes. Eyes . . . I was shaken when I gazed upon the figure’s ghastly face and saw that his eyes lacked whites, but were solidly dark orbs whose regard held me as a serpent’s stare overawes its prey.

  All this while, our confrontation had been soundless, save for my rapid breathing. Suddenly, I thought I heard him speak to me in totally unintelligible words, although his tone was reassuring. I did cry not aloud when I realized that what I had mistaken for a normal voice was instead the result of some hideous magic causing sounds to form within my mind! My legs would no longer support me. I sank to my knees, fighting to avoid an unmanly swoon from stark fear.

  The calm “voice” intruding in my mind was instantly intelligible. “Has it been so long that the very style of speech has altered?” it observed. Then, as I knelt, the tone sharpened. “No, no—do not kneel to me! I am but a scholar, not your lord demanding fealty. Arise, I say! You have restored to me my jewel; you are of my blood, yet your hair is stained as if in disguise. I would ask you to relate your tale, but as you see, I am not fully present in the body. Indeed, now that the presence of my jewel has broken the bonds that have enthralled me here, my time is limited. Unless I act soon, I shall vanish irretrievably. If you will allow me, I will touch your mind and learn from you without consuming the time required for speech. You are alarmed—do not be. I am your kinsman, Elsenar, Servant of the Light. We of the Light do not harm or compel any creature against its will. May I enter your mind?”

  I could not trust myself to speak to this mighty mage, the scourge of our land more than a thousand years past. My flesh crawled at the thought of his touch . . . yet I knew in my bones that I could not prevent him from dealing with me as he would, no matter his fair words. Still, I had come this far unscathed. If Elsen
ar was himself in danger of vanishing altogether, perhaps his Power was greatly diminished. What damage could he wreak against me, other than to kill me? I sternly suppressed my recollection of rumors that Estcarp’s Witches had been known to transform men into animals. I had no time to indulge such foolish fears. I took a step toward Elsenar, and nodded my assent.

  His strange, penetrating gaze swept over me. He raised his hands, and his jewel drifted closer to me, pulsing a deeper, darker blue that expanded into a great sapphire pool of light that engulfed me in its azure depths.

  CHAPTER 30

  Elsenar–events at Narvok’s abandoned lair, recalled subsequently by Kasarian due to their mental linkage (24th–25th Day, Moon of Chordosh)

  Time—an unbelievable span of time had elapsed since my duel with Narvok. It seemed to me only moments ago that my fateful struggle with the Dark Adept had aroused the Force which had lain dormant in this place since the Elder Days. Once it had lashed out, expelling Narvok through his Gate and rending me in twain, it had sunk back into unreachable somnolence, stranding this wisp of me in a bodiless condition, unable to move or speak. After an immeasurable interval, a woman had intruded into my place of confinement. By the Power of my jewel, I attracted her attention, and obtained her permission to employ a spell to breed a Child of my Mind capable of wielding my jewel to release me at some future time. When she, perforce, departed with the jewel, it was impossible for my ensorcelled remnant to gauge how long I hung suspended in the darkness.

  It was not until my mind sensed the approach of my jewel that I roused from my torpor. I was still totally immured, but my awareness waxed as the stone drew ever closer. By the surge of Power, I was alerted when the jewel’s bearer entered the chamber. I hailed my jewel joyfully—as a vital part of my mind, it invigorated me by its closeness, enabling me to assume at least partial visibility. I could not, however, take physical possession of the stone, for I had no substance, no means to touch or be touched. Neither could I speak orally to the young man whose blood called to my blood. But why was his hair stained dark when he was obviously a son of Aliz stock?