did polish you off.’
Ugusawnn is no fool and he has serious doubts about me. Still, it should be easy enough to give him the slip once he and the others have taken care of Honigalus. They have no suspicion that I’m able to impel a small boat with my talent – as if that weren’t one of the first tricks a Mossland magicker learns! Once I’m safely away in Didion, I’ll windspeak the Eminences the revised version of the bargain And we pray that they swallow their outrage and agree to it.
‘Why shouldn’t they? The alternative is custody of a useless dead sigil. How could the Salka possibly suspect that the Potency bonds to no one? That it can be snatched away from this Supreme Warrior and used by anyone at all without causing harm to the taker?’
Such a thing would never occur to them. I wonder why the Potency’s creator made it thus? Not too sensible, was it7 hot that I’m complaining!
‘Consider this: If the Potency doesn’t bond to its activator, then it doesn’t die when the owner does. Unlike all other sigils, the Potency might very well be immortal.’
Interesting – and unsettling, too. God of the Depths! How I wish there were some way of reading that last archive tablet! We need to know why the Potency was made, and why its reputation has always been so dire.
‘After we wipe out the Salka with Darasilo’s Trove, you can return to their citadel and find out.’
Perhaps…Kilian, this conversation must end now. The Supreme Warrior is expecting me to join him. We ‘re inspecting the small boat that will carry me to Didion.
‘Good luck, then, Beynor. May you have a safe voyage.’
I’ll see you in your dreams.
Snudge and his companions broke the first short day of their northward journey shortly before the eleventh hour after noon. The cavalcade had arrived at a little village called Swallowmere, some sixty leagues north of the capital, where there was a tavern of unpretentious but promising aspect. The horses were tired by then, but the young travelers weren’t – not on Solstice Eve, when every man of spirit save those constrained by holy orders was expected to celebrate High Summer.
The Green Swallow Inn proved to be well stocked with extra food and drink for the occasion. Crowded with friendly locals, it featured a three-man band of peasant musicians and plenty of lasses to dance and flirt with. Snudge, his armigers Valdos and Wiltorig, and Sir Gavlock and his squire Hanan joined wholeheartedly in the roistering.
Meanwhile Vra-Mattis, the apprentice windvoice assigned to Sir Deveron by the king, eschewed worldly pleasures as befit a novice in the Mystical Order of Saint Zeth. The night was very warm, so Mat put off his robe and settled down in the inn’s forecourt in his undertunic. He ate a good supper of mutton-dumpling stew and strawberry tarts, rested his saddlesore muscles, and finally fell into a doze on a heap of clean straw, bothered not a whit by the convivial racket coming from inside the tavern.
Some time later, in the wee hours, the novice was jolted awake by an urgent windspoken message from the Royal Alchymist Lord Stergos, intended for Sir Deveron. Its portent was so grave that Mattis hastened to seek out his master without even donning his robe. The interior of the inn was now jam-packed with funseekers, many of them so taken by strong drink that they could barely stand. Skirling pipes, a squawking fiddle, a thumping tabor, laughter and song fairly shook the rafters.
Mattis found his master grinning owlishly as he stomped and shuffled in a drunken round-dance with three cavorting farm-girls. From the sidelines. Sir Gavlok hoisted a cannikin of rustic rotgut and cheered, ignoring the frantic novice who bellowed into his unresponsive ear.
The dance finally ended to raucous applause and Mattis rushed to take Snudge by the arm and pull him in the direction of the inn’s front door. Gavlok trailed along after, protesting his friend’s evacuation.
‘Sir!’ the novice cried. ‘Sir Deveron, can you understand me?’
‘Unhand me, knave,’ Snudge mumbled. ‘Wanna dance!’ He tripped over his own feet and fell to his knees in the dirt courtyard. ‘Feel sleepy. Time f’bed.’
‘Sir, please listen!’ Vra-Mattis attempted without success to haul his master upright. ‘I’ve received an important wind-message from the Royal Alchymist. His Grace the High King commands you to return to the capital immediately.’
‘Booger the king. Booger Stergos. Go ‘way.’ Snudge rolled onto his face.
The dismayed windvoice appealed to the other young knight, who now seemed to be almost sober. ‘What am I to do? We dare not wait until he’s slept off his carouse. Lord Stergos insisted that we leave here at once.’
Gavlok nudged his collapsed friend with his foot. ‘Commander! Arise! Duty calls!’ The only response was a muffled curse. Inside the inn, the music had started up again more loudly and off-key than ever. A fat man staggered out the door and spewed in the shadows.
‘Poor Deveron,’ Gavlok mourned. ‘His very first holiday. Alas – he was having such a fine time, too! But I fear, Brother Mat, that drastic measures are now called for. Assist me, if you please.’ Together, the two men began to drag the inert Snudge across the courtyard toward the stables. A courting couple fled at their approach.
Sir Gavlok Whitfell was aware that Deveron Austrey frequently undertook secret missions for King Conrig, but knew nothing of his friend’s arcane talent. Formerly armiger to Lord Stergos, Gavlok had been knighted a year earlier than Snudge and was now assigned to the Royal Alchymist’s Guard. Although he was nobly born, the fourth son of a distinguished Westley family, he was too introspective and sensitive to be an enthusiastic warrior. Lord Stergos valued the gangling, fairhaired young man for his intelligence, his unswerving integrity, and his self-deprecating sense of humor – as did Snudge.
‘We do this for Sir Deveron’s own good,’ Gavlok declared to the windvoice, as the two of them reached a horse-trough with their burden. They tipped Snudge into the water with a great splash, then hauled him out and sat him down in the straw, coughing and spluttering.
‘Whoreson!’ Snudge croaked, lashing out with feeble fury at the friend who was divesting him of his sodden garments. ‘I’ll b-broil your b-bollocks for this!’
‘No doubt,’ Gavlok replied. ‘But first you must listen to Vra-Mattis, who has a message for you from the king.’
‘What?’
Mattis told him. Snudge groaned piteously. ‘Shite! My head spins like a whirry – whirligig. A ‘mergency, you say? What sort?’
But the novice had not been entrusted with further information, and Snudge knew with woozy certainty that there was no possibility that he himself might bespeak the Royal Alchymist and learn more. His own windtalent had been totally extinguished by ardent spirits, as had most of his other mental faculties. In fact, he was nearly paralytic.
‘Gavvy,’ he whispered, sinking to the ground again and holding his swollen head in his hands. ‘Gavvy, old friend. I muss – must lay a great ‘sponsibility on you. Can’t hang two thoughts together myself. D’you think you can get the lot of us on the road? Fresh horses, o’course. Clean clothes, too. Our three squires are swizzled as swineherds, lyin’ in a filthy heap somewhere inside.’
‘I’m none too sharp myself,’ Gavlok admitted, ‘and I’ll need your fat purse to make the arrangements. But count on me.’
‘Good man.’ Without another word Snudge curled into a ball and began to snore. Overhead, the sky was already pink at three in the morning of Solstice Day, and Cathran songbirds were singing their dawn chorus, oblivious to the merrymaking inside the inn.
He woke with his head clanging like an anvil, riding through