Читать книгу Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale - Julian May - Страница 8

In the dragon’s devouring abyss, darker than night and shot through with giddy red sparks, Induna of Barking Sands waited passively for death. Meanwhile, she dreamed of the time she had finally found Deveron.

The tropical night had been well advanced when the three-masted clipper ship tied up in Mikk-Rozodh and she was allowed to disembark. It was not the most propitious hour for a respectable woman to be wandering the docks in an unfamiliar port city. The Andradhian captain of the speedy merchantman, a grandfatherly sort who had treated her with unfailing courtesy during the long voyage, offered to have his third mate escort her to decent lodgings; but she declined with thanks, asking only to be directed to the nearest place where a small boat might be hired. Even though she was bone-weary and hungry, she knew she could never rest until she passed on the message she had come so far to deliver.

‘You’ll find punts at yon waterstairs,’ the captain said, ‘beyond the last slip, along the canal where the four torches flare. But are you sure you want to travel the backwaters of Mikk-Town so late at night?’

No female shaman had anything to fear from ordinary men. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you again for your great kindness.’

Induna descended the gangplank, cloaked and carrying her embossed leather fardel on a strap secured over her shoulder. The canal was only about a hundred ells away. Nautical loiterers on the quay snickered and elbowed each other as she passed. One called out insolently, pretending to admire her red-gold hair, which was uncommon in the south, and asking what a Tarnian wench was doing so far from home.

It was a good question, she thought, but one too late to worry about now.

The Source had told her the name he was using and said that anyone in the Andradhian city of Mikk-Rozodh would know how to find him. She studied the small group of men gossiping at the foot of the waterstairs and selected the oldest, a thickset greybeard neatly attired in green canvas breeches, stout sandals, and a curious mesh shirt that revealed the silver hair on his chest.

‘Goodman, I would like to hire a boat. Do you know the dwelling of Haydon the Sympath?’

He stepped away from the others, smiling good-naturedly, and touched the wide brim of his hat, which was woven of black straw. ‘Aye, mistress. He’s a Tarnian – as you are yourself, I’m thinking. But he’s well thought-of in these parts in spite of it.’

The other boatmen guffawed. Tarn and Andradh were ancient foes, even though their people shared the same Wave-Harrier blood. An Andradhian invasion of Tarn nearly two decades ago, beaten back only with the help of Ironcrown’s navy, had finally forced the proud Sealords to join the Sovereignty.

‘Is Haydon’s home far from here?’ Induna asked.

‘Not even an hour away. But it’s late and he’s a prickly sort, not to be approached after dark except for good reason. Does he know you?’

‘Yes, from many years ago.’

‘Then let’s be off. My name’s Momor and here’s my punt. The trip will cost four silver pennies of Tarn, if you’ve none of our coin.’

The price was exorbitant but she had no choice. He helped her to board and settle herself, then stood on a stern platform and poled the slender craft along the canal and into the heart of the city. The clipper’s crew had informed her that this region of southern Andradh was a low-lying collection of inhabited islands, most of them joined by humpback bridges, heavily populated along the shores and blessed with lush soil that supported rice farms and plantations of tropical fruits. These commodities, much valued in Tarn and elsewhere on High Blenholme, had formed the outward-bound clipper’s cargo. On the voyage home it had been loaded with casks of dried salmon, salt cod, whale oil, opals, and gold. Induna had been the only paying passenger traveling the more than two thousand leagues from Mesta in Tarn’s Shelter Bay to Mikk-Rozodh.

Once Momor’s punt left the harbor area, with its tall-masted ships, sturdy warehouses, and bustling taverns and brothels, the buildings along the canal changed in character. At first the dwellings were grand, constructed of fine timber and imported stone, with balustered steps leading down to well-lighted landing stages. She saw only a handful of people moving about on the shore. A number of other punts and the occasional private barge or paddle-scow moved up and down the waterways, but most of the citizens seemed to have already retired to their homes.

Further along, the canal narrowed and began to wind sharply. Momor turned into a side-channel where the houses became meaner and more closely crowded, although still neat enough. They were made of pole and thatch, set on stilts in the mud, and often connected to one another by board walkways. Tiny watercraft were tied to laddered pilings below them. A multitude of feebly glowing lamps shone from unglazed windows, screened from flying insects by cloth or bead curtains. She saw people moving about within the houses, heard laughter, crying babes, music, and the nightcries of frogs and birds. The odors of exotic cooking and human waste vied with the rich perfume of the flowers that filled ornamental containers on almost every rickety balcony.

Induna unfastened her heavy cloak and folded it on the thwart beside her. Beneath it she wore a simple russet-colored linen gown. Momor said, ‘That’s right, mistress. You won’t need a wool mantle here in Mikk-Town. Our weather’s a far cry from that in Tarn. Nice and warm year-round. Overwarm during the rainy season, if you want the truth. You planning to stay long?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. The message was all that really mattered.

During the voyage, she had tried to visualize her reunion with Deveron countless times, but without success. In truth, she didn’t know his heart, his true self, well enough to speculate. Their time together before he was forced to flee had been too brief. Even after they were engaged to marry he had not opened his mind to her as windtalented lovers were wont to do. He was unfailingly gentle and considerate, but always on guard. They had kissed and caressed and laughed together but had never joined their bodies. It was not the custom in Tarn to swive before wedlock – although one honored more in the breach than the keeping by many young couples. But Deveron had respected it.

‘Does he know you’re coming, lass?’ The boatman’s bantering voice had turned compassionate.

‘No.’

‘Is he a relation?’

‘In a manner of speaking. We – we were once betrothed, but unhappy circumstances caused us to part. It’s been many years.’

‘Oho! So that’s the way of it. And now things’ve changed for the better and you’re come to tell him the good news, eh? Well, Haydon the Sympath has no wife or regular doxy here. He keeps house for himself. So mayhap you’re in luck.’

She said nothing, having no illusions about her upcoming reception. If Deveron had wanted her to join him in his exile, he would have found a way to get word to her long ago, although Tarn was far beyond windspeech range, even for persons as highly talented as the two of them. But he had not sent for her. She knew that he had escaped from Conrig Ironcrown’s agents sixteen years earlier; but whether he lived or not had been a mystery that was solved only when the Source bespoke her and sent her on this improbable journey.

‘Your man’s done well for himself in the years spent away from home,’ Momor was saying. He had stowed his pole in the boat and installed a sculling oar at the stern when the waters of the canal became deeper. ‘Even the rich folk consult Haydon, since they know he keeps his mouth shut. Was he also a sympath in Tarn?’

‘We call them shaman-healers. Dev-Haydon was one, and so am I.’

Her reply inspired a drawn-out account of bodily miseries suffered by the boatman and his family, along with requests for free medical advice that lasted until the punt finally drew up at an isolated dock. Two small craft were tied there – a wooden dinghy and a peculiar elongated skiff fashioned from sheets of some thin material resembling treebark. The house served by the dock stood alone on an island that was otherwise densely forested with strange tall trees having narrow trunks crowned with mops of feathery leaves. One of the dock-pilings was adorned with a large carving of an owl, hung about with garlands of snail-shells. Another bore a brass ship’s bell on a bracket and a lantern with a guttering flame.

‘The sympath’s sign,’ Momor said, indicating the nightbird’s image. ‘Both an invitation and a warning. Owls are rare in this part of the world, omens of wisdom because they see in the dark…but also of sudden death because they swoop to kill on silent wings. Haydon’s not to be trifled with, either.’

He sculled his punt up to the dock and tied the line to a cleat, then helped Induna to climb out. ‘Will you want me to wait, mistress? I’ll have to charge triple. My own bed’s waiting.’

‘No. You need not stay.’ She gave him his fee. ‘Am I supposed to ring this bell?’

‘I’d recommend it.’ Momor gave a laugh without much humor in it, slipped the line, and glided briskly away. In a few moments he was lost to sight around a bend in the canal.

Induna studied the owl image for a moment. The bird had been Deveron’s heraldic cognizance and this was certainly his house. Unlike most of the flimsy dwellings she had seen, it was well-constructed of squared logs, Tarnian-style, with a covered porch surrounding it. Its roof was slate slabs, steeply pitched to shed rain, and the chimney was of stone. The windows that faced the canal were not large. They had been fitted with storm-shutters and were curtained by what looked like straw matting. Slivers of lamplight penetrated them, casting golden quadrangles on the ground. The front door was made of iron-bound planks. If he wished, Haydon the Sympath could turn his house into a rather tight little fort.

And that’s why you never sent word to me, Induna said to herself. Deveron had not wanted to risk her life, should Ironcrown’s assassins hunt him down.

She stood irresolute for a few more minutes, quite certain that he knew she was there, not wanting to disturb the gentle jungle sounds with the brass bell’s clangor. Finally, with the folded cloak tucked under one arm and her fardel under the other, she walked down the dock and along the stone-bordered path to the porch. Then she knocked on the door.

It opened almost immediately. He had been waiting.

He wore an unadorned tunic and trews of dark green camlet, well worn and not especially clean; but his belt was finely tooled and had a golden buckle. Around his neck a flat gold case engraved with an owl hung from a handsome chain. There were new lines at the corners of his vibrant blue eyes, and his mouth had grown thinner and tighter. He had a short beard and a neat moustache. His nut-brown hair was touched with grey and cut shorter than she remembered, combed over his forehead and ears like a close-fitting helmet.

‘Welcome, love,’ he said quietly. ‘Come in and be at home.’

In the dragon’s devouring abyss, darker than night and shot through with giddy red sparks, Deveron Austrey waited angrily for death. Meanwhile, he dreamed of the time Induna finally found him.

She came with tentative steps into the house’s sitting room, which was separated from the apotheck workbenches and shelves at the rear by a long counter with a half-door set into it. The fireplace against the lefthand wall held a small nest of glowing coals in its grate. A steaming teakettle hung from an iron crane and a covered stoneware crock stood on the warming-hob.

She seemed at a loss for words, still carrying the folded cloak and the leather case. Her smile was almost fearful and her eyes remained fixed on his face, as if comparing it with another long remembered.

‘Give me your things,’ he said gently. ‘Be seated in the cushioned chair by the table. Is this all you have with you, or did you leave more baggage in town? I can have it sent for.’

‘There’s nothing else. The fardel holds everything I needed for the voyage. I only just arrived this evening on a clipper ship. I – I came directly to your house from the harbor.’

‘I see.’ He hung her cloak on a wallhook and placed the carrying case beneath it. ‘Have you eaten?’ When she shook her head, he fetched a bowl and a spoon and ladled out a generous portion of lamb pottage from the crock on the hob.

‘I have herbal tea steeping in the pot – chamomile, lemon, and valerian to soothe the mind. Shall I pour you some, and perhaps add a splash of good Stippenese brandy? I was going to have some myself before retiring.’

‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘The stew is delicious. I was near starving. The ship’s mess was served early in the afternoon, and I was too nervous to eat much, knowing we were approaching your home.’

‘Help yourself to as much as you want. I usually break my morning fast with supper’s leftovers, but I’ll make us something much better tomorrow morning: buttered eggs with cocodrill sausage.’

He filled two plain pottery mugs, placing hers on the table and taking his own to an armchair that he pulled out from the wall.

‘Cocodrill? What manner of meat would that be?’ she asked.

‘The tail portion of a huge lizard that dwells in our jungle waterways. I make the sausage myself. Smoked and well-peppered, with onions and herbs, it’s fit for a king’s banquet.’

‘A king…’ She lowered her eyes to her food, then continued to eat in silence.

‘Is there still a price on my head?’ he inquired lightly.

‘The notices were taken down years ago.’

‘Ah. But I daresay the reward still stands, doesn’t it?’

‘I hope not,’ she murmured.

He paused in sipping his tea and leaned toward her. ‘Why? What do you mean?’

She shook her head and would not meet his gaze, so he left off asking questions, content to wait for her to explain herself in her own good time.

When she finished her meal he refilled their mugs and led her outside to the covered porch facing the canal. Several sturdy sling-stools with leather seats were set about a low stand, which held three little clay pots. Using his talent, he struck a finger-flame and touched it to the pots’ contents; fragrant smoke arose.

‘The resin’s smell keeps biting midges at bay most effectively. I wish we’d had it at our Deep Creek manorhouse.’

They sat side by side, drinking tea and listening to the night creatures. He had put out the lamp within the house and aside from the stars, the small lantern down on the dock gave the only light. She took a deep breath and reached for his hand. It was cool and rough with calluses.

‘I came to you for a reason, Deveron. I was sent by the Source.’

He said nothing, but his fingers tightened on hers.

‘He bespoke me some three weeks ago at the manor, giving me an urgent message for you. I left immediately. Tiglok’s sons carried me south to Mesta in their sloop, and there I took passage on an Andradhian clipper.’

‘This is the only reason you came, then.’ His voice was toneless. ‘You were compelled by that black manipulator. The One Denied the Sky has pulled you into his inhuman game. And now I suppose he seeks to re-enlist me as well.’

‘The choice to come here was my own, Deveron. I can’t deny how my heart leapt with joy at the prospect of seeing you once again, after so many years of not knowing whether you were dead or alive. The message…it’s vitally important. But once the Source told me where you were, neither the powers of heaven nor hell could have kept me from coming. Since you left me, there’s been no other. There could never be. But if – if it’s what you want, I’ll leave after saying what I must.’ Her eyes overflowed.

He took her in his arms. ‘Duna, Duna, don’t cry. I had to go away. It was the only way to keep you and Maris safe from Ironcrown’s evil minions.’

‘I know.’ She wiped her face on her sleeve and sat up straighter.’ ‘And here is the Source’s message. Make of it what you will. He asks that you return to High Blenholme with the utmost speed and stealth, using the Subtle Gateway sigil. You must go to Castle Morass in Didion and there take counsel of your – your twice-great-grandmother, after which you are to present yourself to the Sovereign of Blenholme and offer to serve and guide him as Royal Intelligencer once again.’

For a moment Deveron was rendered speechless. Then: ‘It’s a cosmic joke! One of those tricks the cursèd Beaconfolk are so fond of. What is the Source, save one of them? A renegade Light who now thinks to send me to my doom to serve some dark purpose –’

She touched his mouth with her free hand, cutting off the tirade. ‘Nay! Not so, love. He told me you would be welcomed. That your special services are sorely needed. That the New Conflict now enters its final critical stages, and its outcome depends upon the defeat of the Salka as well as the evil Lights who empower them. You can help bring that about.’

He drew away from her with a violent motion and rose to his feet. ‘I know almost nothing of the political situation on the island nowadays, save for the fragments of news that reach Mikk-Town and are gossiped about by my clients. Throughout this exile, I’ve deliberately avoided any attempt at scrying Conrig’s court – not that it would have been easy, from this great distance. I didn’t want to know what was happening in Blenholme. I still don’t want to know!’

‘Would you allow the island of your birth and all the human folk living there to fall prey to the Salka?’

He said nothing, turning his back to her and staring at the canal. His loud outburst had silenced the calls of the birds and frogs.

‘If you wish,’ she said with shy eagerness, ‘I can tell you much of what’s happened there. And once you’ve arrived in Didion, your great-great-grandmother –’

‘There’s no such person. My aged grandsire, who raised me after the death of my parents, never spoke of her. Even if she were alive, she’d be over a hundred years old. What use could such a feeble crone possibly be in a war against the Salka monsters?’

She rose and went to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘That’s what you must discover, Deveron. You must return to Blenholme. Not for Conrig’s sake – he’s a tyrant unworthy of your love – but for the sake of the people he rules. For all his faults, he’s a strong Sovereign. He’s held the Salka in check this long, but only because the creatures have never taken full advantage of their sigil weaponry.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Do you know that the Salka leaders have activated the Great Stone known as the Potency? The Source told me that it’s a crucial tool of the New Conflict. Among other things, it can abolish the pain associated with sigil sorcery. Thus far, the monsters have made little use of it, perhaps for fear of offending the Beaconfolk and losing their magical weapons altogether. The minor sigils they now possess cause bearable pain, which they willingly endure. But lately the Salka have begun trying to fashion new sigils: not minor ones, but rather Great Stones like those once owned by their ancestors and by the rulers of Moss. If the monsters succeed in making these things, and then defy the Lights by abolishing the pain that limits the stones’ use, they’ll be unstoppable.’

‘Unstoppable,’ he repeated. ‘Yet Conrig Ironcrown is supposed to stop them. With my insignificant help. I’m only a healer, Induna!’

‘One who cannot be scried from afar by any sorcerer.’

‘The Lights can see me. I’m only beyond their reach here. That’s why they had to send you.’

‘You have other wild talents that exceed those of most professional magickers. And you have the two sigils that the Source compelled you to keep in spite of yourself, the ones you used to escape Conrig’s men. Are the stones now enclosed in that golden case hanging round your neck?’

He gripped the pendant in one fist without answering.

‘Subtle Gateway will transport you to Castle Morass in the blink of an eye,’ she said, ‘just as it enabled you to travel from Tarn to this place. And with Concealer you’ll be able to move about with complete invisibility at your destination. No other person has these advantages.’

When he replied, his voice trembled with an anger not directed at her. ‘In the sixteen years I’ve dwelt here, I’ve never used these accurst moonstones. They imperil one’s soul, as you already know. They seduce the user with the promise of more and more power and make him believe that the price is worth paying…Duna, I’ve wanted that power.’

‘The Source knows that, love. He also knows your strength. You can turn the sigil magic against the Pain-Eaters if you choose to. You can help end their ability to enslave and harm persons living in the Ground Realm.’

‘Let others fight this New Conflict! Why must I do it?’

‘You know why. Accept the mission, Deveron, if you’ve ever loved me. If I could relieve you of the burden, I’d take it on myself in an instant. But I can’t do this thing. Only you can.’

He gave a great sigh. ‘It means so much to you?’

‘On my life – it does.’

‘Then how can it mean less to me?’

Her face lit up. ‘You’ll go?’

He nodded. When he spoke, his voice was sad. ‘But only for your sake…as the Source knew well enough when he sent you.’

It took him the rest of the night to prepare for the journey.

Besides questioning Induna at length, he consulted maps and reference tomes before deciding on the supplies he would need. The Source’s choice of Castle Morass as his destination was puzzling. The place was a primitive, ill-situated little fortress above the Wold Road, owned by old Ising Bedotha, one of Didion’s most intransigent robber-barons. It was the last spot likely to be chosen by Conrig as a staging area for a strike against Salka pushing south along the Beacon River corridor toward human settlements surrounding Black Hare Lake.

Induna explained to him that, for unknown reasons, the shockingly swift Thunder Moon invasion by the monsters had come to an abrupt halt just three weeks after it began. Now, at the start of Harvest Moon, the Salka were still massed some fifty or sixty leagues north of Black Hare, in the heart of the Green Morass. If their advance remained stalled in that desolate wetland forest much longer, the onslaught of the bitter northern winter would force them either to hibernate or to retreat into the Icebear Channel. But there were disquieting rumors that the Salka were considering a new plan of action. Not even the Source knew what it might be.

Deveron decided he must be prepared for both rainy and cold weather. Leaving Induna to collect and dispose safely of the potentially harmful chymicals and herbal substances he would have to leave behind in the apotheck, he embarked for the city center in his dinghy. He had no furs or heavy leather garb of his own, but such things would be readily available from ship-chandlers he could roust out of bed at Mikk-Town quay…along with other merchants selling more unusual wares he had long since eschewed.

Dawn was breaking by the time he returned home. The dinghy was laden almost to the gunwales. Induna was surprised to see him unload it, then haul a second, lighter craft ashore and begin restowing almost everything inside it.

‘I’m taking the skiff with me to Didion,’ he explained. ‘It’ll be useful for getting around in the Green Morass. I don’t dare transport myself directly to the near vicinity of the castle. Who knows what’s waiting there besides my alleged twice-great-grandma? I’ll ask the sigil to set me down in a safe place a few leagues away, then scry out the situation before presenting myself.’

‘That’s wise,’ she agreed. ‘It’s such a long journey, though. You’ll probably suffer severe pain-debt on your arrival.’

‘Another excellent reason for not going straight to the castle. If my uncanny trip from Tarn to here was any indication, it’ll be at least three days before I recover enough to function – even marginally. But I won’t be struck down helpless the moment I arrive. There’ll be a very brief interval during which I’ll be able to move about and find shelter.’

‘When you used Gateway to transport you and your companions on the search for Princess Maude, you were smitten nigh unto death.’

‘I overreached myself. Asked the sigil to carry me too far with too many companions and too much baggage. And I did it again, having no choice, when I carried all of us to safety from Skullbone Peel to Donorvale. This time the power I demand will be much less.’

‘Still…Perhaps you should take me with you. I weigh very little and I could make myself useful. I’ve hardly had time to tell you anything of events in Blenholme while you were away.’

‘I’ll learn soon enough,’ he muttered. ‘You are not going with me into the middle of a sorcerer’s war. It’s bad enough that you had to make this long sea voyage alone.’

‘But you might have great need of my healing arts or magic.’

‘You’re staying here.’

‘What if you should arrive badly disabled?’ she cried in growing desperation. ‘If I were there, I could once again share my soul’s substance with you. It would cure you at once –’

‘At the cost of your own wellbeing!’ He took hold of her upper arms, drew her close, and kissed her hard on the lips. When he finally broke away, she saw there were tears in his eyes. ‘Twice you made that terrible sacrifice for me, shortening your own life God only knows how much in the process. You won’t do it again. I won’t allow it! We must both face the fact that this journey is likely to be one that I won’t return from alive.’

‘No!’ She clung to him. ‘The Source wouldn’t be so cruel. And he never forbade me from accompanying you to Didion. How do you know what kind of place the capricious Lights will set you down in? It could be next to a tundra-lion’s lair!’

‘And you’d rescue me from the ravening beast?’

‘Yes! Why not?’ She broke free and suddenly held a small ball of crackling flame in her hand. She flung it with a powerful overhand lob into the dark waters of the canal, where it was quenched with a loud hiss.

He showed her a small smile. ‘You’ve learned new tricks, I see.’

‘Deveron, take me!’ she pleaded. ‘I love you so much. We’ve only just found one another again.’

‘Do you think I want to leave you? It’s for your sake that I go! For you, Duna. Don’t ask more of me.’

Replying not another word to her continuing entreaties, he finished loading the skiff, lashing down both a sheathed broadsword and a crossbow to the packs wrapped in oilskin. When he finally spoke again, his face was haggard and grim.

‘Do you have gold enough for your voyage home?’

She touched the purse at her belt. ‘More than enough.’

‘Later in the day, a victualer’s scow will make its weekly stop at my dock. You can get a ride back to town from him. Stay at the inn called the Golden Cocodrill. Mention my assumed name, Haydon, to the landlord. He’ll see you safely aboard a ship sailing north. And now I must go into the house and change my clothes.’

‘Deveron.’ She held out an imploring hand. ‘Is there any hope, before you leave me forever…if you could but find it in your heart…’ She looked away. ‘It’s not for a Tarnian woman to ask such a thing.’

‘What is it? If there’s anything I can do to ease our parting, then tell me.’ He took her hand and drew her close, but as the heavy golden case holding the moonstones pressed against the flesh of her bosom she pulled away with a small cry.

‘If we could only…But no, it would be an unfair request with you facing such a dreadful ordeal. Go, put on your traveling clothes. I’ll wait here and pray for us both.’

‘I could prepare breakfast –’

He didn’t understand and she could not tell him. She hung her head and the tears began again. ‘I have no appetite for food.’

‘Nor have I.’

He went into the house, emerging later clad in stout hunting gear, with a dagger at his waist and gauntlets tucked into his belt. The Great Stone called Subtle Gateway, which was actually a very small and delicate carving of a door, now hung naked on its chain in the open neck of his wool shirt where he could grasp it easily and pronounce the incantation.

‘But where’s the Concealer?’ she asked. ‘Won’t you make yourself invisible before departing? Wouldn’t it be safer?’

‘No doubt – but using both sigils together would also prolong the period of agony and helplessness.’

‘I see.’ She was still kneeling beside the boat. Sunrise lit the sparkling canal and tropical flowers were blooming on every hand. To a native of subarctic Tarn, the scene might have been one of paradise; but Induna’s eyes were too full to see anything but his blurred features looking down on her with a doleful smile.

He embraced her as a brother might, kissing her on the forehead. Then he climbed into the beached skiff and knelt on the bottom, bracing himself. He had organized the packs so there was plenty of room in the elongated craft, and three paddles were well secured beneath the thwarts so they would not be lost.

‘Farewell, Duna,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet again.’

‘I’m sure of it,’ she replied in a strange soft voice.

Taking hold of the moonstone, he pronounced the incantation and gave instructions on where he desired to go. But as he uttered the last words and the stone flared green she flung herself into the boat on top of him, clutching his neck, and they disappeared together in a soundless annihilation.

She dreamed of that crashing downpour of rain, the deeper roar of the boreal river in flood, the gale-lashed willow saplings like stinging whips flailing her face. The skiff lay at an extreme angle, trapped among rocks and tilted nearly on its side, atop a gravel bar in the midst of a foaming brown torrent. She had been thrown clear onto muddy stones among the dwarf trees; but Deveron was still in the boat, caught between the thwarts and the oil-skin-covered bundles of cargo, with his eyes closed and uttering piteous groans. The Gateway sigil on its chain blazed like an emerald star against his throat.

Bruised over half her body, hampered by sodden skirts and the spiky willow thicket, she crept toward him on her hands and knees. When she was clear of the wretched little trees at last, she pulled herself to her feet and stood swaying, buffeted by wind and rain. She was already beginning to shiver, even though the air was not very cold.

What had happened to them? How had the magical transport gone wrong? It almost seemed as though the skiff had been flung onto the gravel bar from a considerable height. Had the Lights only reluctantly provided the sorcery, because it was somehow against their best interests?

The heavily wooded banks of the river were nine or ten ells distant on each side of the islet. The water was opaque and swirling. There was no way to tell how deep it was, but the current flowed with ominous swiftness, carrying all manner of broken vegetation and floating branches. The gravel bar itself was spindle-shaped with pointed ends, perhaps four ells wide where they had landed. Most of the willows that had taken root on it were already partially submerged. She’d fallen into the last patch that stood above water.

‘Deveron!’ she cried, taking hold of the front of his jerkin and shaking him. ‘Can you hear me?’

He only moaned. A trickle of blood seeped from beneath his woolen cap. She pulled it off and found a large lump and an oozing scalp cut. Cautious probing of the skull on either side of it reassured her that the bone was yet solid and the wound superficial, for all the bloody mess. The pupils of his eyes were of the same size and he was not feverish. She hoped that he had only been stunned.

But should he remain partially conscious for much longer, the sigil’s pain-debt would overwhelm him. He would be helpless for three days or even longer…

If anything was to be done, she’d have to do it. It seemed obvious that they’d have to get off the gravel bar. It was too small and barren to be a satisfactory camping place. The predatory animals of the Green Morass would smell Deveron’s blood and not hesitate to swim out and attack. Her magic and his weapons might fend the beasts off during the daytime, but what would happen when she fell asleep? The small willow trees wouldn’t last long as firewood, even if she managed to ignite them.

No, there was no helping it. She would have to drag the skiff into the river and paddle to a safer place.

She pulled her wet skirts forward through her legs and tucked the cloth into the front of her belt, making it possible for her to move about more easily, then set about trying to tug and push the long narrow craft toward the water’s edge. But it was much too heavy, besides being securely wedged in place by several large rocks. With a sinking heart, she realized that it would have to be unloaded.

The rain was falling harder than ever and the rushing river made a great noise. She felt confused and on the verge of panic. Her bruises and facial cuts ached and an insidious chill stiffened her hands. She considered pulling Deveron out of the boat, but he was not a small man and she feared she’d be unable to get him back in again. She’d do better to remove the packs, but they were large and heavy, covered with oilskin and firmly lashed down. Poor Deveron was lying in a pool of blood-tinged water that would have to be bailed out. But what to do first?…

Despondency suddenly overwhelmed her like a crushing wave. Furious words burst from her lips as she screamed up at the sky. ‘It’s your fault, Source! You told him to use the damned Gateway sigil. It was supposed to transport him to a safe place – I heard him command it. Is this what you call safe?’

The anger invigorated her and restored her right-thinking. She set about rigging an improvised tent over the entire boat, using a large oilskin along with rawhide cord that had tied down the packs. The three paddles served as poles and heavy stones substituted for tentpegs.

Her fingers were going numb and she was shivering badly by the time she finished. She would have to find more suitable clothing quickly or risk collapsing from exposure. Deveron had packed plenty of extra things, and the third pack she opened contained what she required. She stripped to the skin and put on woolen trews that she rolled to fit her short legs, two pairs of stockings, waxed-leather buskins that were only a trifle too large, a heavy tunic, and a fleece vest. One of the smaller oilskins served as a raincape. She found knitted fingerless mitts and a long scarf to wrap around her neck, and pulled a fur cap over her ears. After covering Deveron with a blanket and wrapping his wounded head in a shirt, she rested for a while beneath the meager shelter before beginning the hard work of shifting the packs.

Even though most of her clothing was already damp, she felt much warmer. A delicious languor spread through her body. She heard the crashing river and raindrops rattling on oilskin. Through slowly closing eyes, she saw a black wall of spruce trees on the shore, undergrowth tossing in the wind, and a sudden gleam of – what?

Was there something out there?

Fear jolted her awake. She struggled to her feet, used her talent to search the dark forest, but relaxed again when she scried no living thing. She and Deveron were alone in the wilderness. Alone on a tiny river island that was empty save for a patch of stunted willows –

She stiffened as her gaze swept over the little trees. Brown water now covered the base of every thin trunk. The river was rising. Without her noticing, the gravel bar had shrunk to half of its previous length.

Source! her terrified mind shrieked on the uncanny wind. What am I to do?

There was no reply.

Working frantically, she dismantled the shelter and returned the paddles and all of the unloaded equipment to the skiff. Then she surveyed the tilted craft. What would happen when the water rose under it? Would it capsize?

Not if you get in and weight it on the high side.

She gave a great start and almost lost her footing in the slippery mud. Then she gave a shrill laugh. ‘Thank you for the reassurance, Source! Just make certain we don’t flip in the rapids or go over a waterfall after we float free. I really don’t know how to paddle this thing.’

He does. It’s time to revive him, Induna. Do it now while there’s still time, before the Pain-Eaters begin to feed.

‘Source, do you mean –’

But she knew what was meant.

Cautiously, she levered herself into the skiff so they were lying face to face, then fastened their belts loosely together. Whatever happened would happen to both of them. She tucked translucent oilskin over their bodies to fend off the worst of the rain, enclosing them in golden gloom. It was almost cosy, she thought.

With the utmost caution she unfastened the chain of the sigil called Subtle Gateway and eased the moonstone into his wallet, which she reattached to his belt. Then she opened the front of both their shirts.

A tremendous clap of thunder exploded overhead, shaking the very earth and causing the grounded skiff to lurch.

‘So you Lights disapprove, do you? Then rage and howl and shake the stars from their courses if you can! But know that I’ll free him from you again, just as I did before. Your feast is over before it begins.’

She chanted the invocation with one hand resting between her breasts. The damp skin softened and became as yielding as bread dough. She reached through soft flesh and bone into her own beating heart and drew forth a tiny thing no larger than a finger-joint, a pearl-colored female image that was alive and moving. Her entire body shuddered and seemed on the verge of dissolution, then regained its mortal solidity. But she was diminished, deprived of a significant portion of vital energy, and she knew that this time the sacrifice would take a toll much greater than it had before.

Will I recover? she wondered. But it didn’t matter. He would.

Her eyesight was beginning to fade as she pressed the shining little homuncule into his breast. It vanished and so did his agony. He was free. She heard him crying her name on the wind.

Induna!

In her dream she was content, smiling as the dragon pulled her down and down and down, into the black abyss.

The darkness brightened. Rainbow reflections shimmered on a quicksilver mirror. She saw again the awful gaping jaws and gemlike eyes of the Morass Worm, and watched that ghastly visage melt and metamorphose into a familiar human face. His.

She woke.

He sat beside her, holding one of her hands. She lay in a warm, comfortable bed in a small room where wan sunlight shone through a leaded window of pebble-glass. Two women stood on either side of Deveron, smiling down at her. One was tall and fairhaired, dressed like a common serving wench, but with a bold and commanding bearing for all that she was still in the first blush of maidenhood. The girl’s left wrist was bound in a splinted dressing. The second woman was much older but very comely. She was a tiny person who stood less than five feet tall. Enormous green eyes dominated a sweet unlined face. Her hair, of mingled silver and gold, was done up in two long plaits.

‘The worm,’ Induna whispered. ‘The devouring worm!’

‘Nay,’ Deveron said, wiping her brow with a cool cloth. ‘It rescued us, love. Unaccountable as it may seem, the dragon somehow brought the skiff with us inside to the very destination we originally sought: Castle Morass. You are resting in a village nearby.’

‘We had been expecting you, my dear,’ the very small woman said. ‘The Source told us you would be coming.’ Her smile was mischievous. ‘I admit your manner of deliverance was unexpected. You were brought by Vaelrath, one of the few of her ferocious ilk who sometimes condescends to deal with my people.’

The tall girl said rather brusquely, ‘How do you feel, Induna? You’ve lain senseless for over a day while the healers worked on you. Your man was frantic with worry – and with good reason. Did you truly donate a portion of your soul to save his life? Great Starry Bear! Never have I heard of such a thing.’

Induna pulled herself up on the pillows, discovering that she was wearing a finely embroidered linen nightgown. ‘It is an uncommon piece of magic, rarely performed by Tarnian healers. And I now feel well recovered. But who are you two ladies, that you have familiar congress with such a dread creature as a Morass Worm?’

Deveron said, ‘Where are my manners? Let me present Her Majesty, Casabarela Mallburn, daughter of the lamented King Honigalus, and rightful Queen Regnant of Didion.’

The fairhaired wench grinned. ‘My Uncle Somarus, that murdering swine, calls me Casya Pretender. He’d pay ten thousand gold marks for me, dead or alive, but I have a temporary safe refuge here at Castle Morass, among secret friends, while my broken wrist heals.’

Deveron said, ‘And may I also present Mistress Sithalooy Cray, who is a leader among the race of Green Men…and my newly discovered great-great-grandmother.’

‘You must call me Cray.’ The little woman held a cup to Induna’s lips. ‘Drink a little of this. It will strengthen you. Then we must discuss urgent matters, for our poor world is in a state of turmoil unknown since the days of that upstart human, Bazekoy. And we have been chosen to put it right – if such can be done.’

Deveron said firmly, ‘But first, Eldmama, before we deal with such momentous things, we will talk of a wedding.’

The tall, rawboned woman dressed in a dusty black magicker’s cloak and a broad-brimmed hat approached Beorbrook Hold with her heart full of hope – and feet that hurt like blue blazes.

It had taken Rusgann Moorcock two days and two nights, walking without stopping save for brief periods of rest, to negotiate the steep downhill track that led from Lord Tinnis Catclaw’s mountain retreat to the civilized regions of northern Cathra. Her witch’s disguise, coupled with her daunting height and fierce scowl, had warned off the few shepherds and other high-country denizens she’d met along the way. They had eyed her warily and kept their distance, wanting nothing to do with what appeared to be a wandering conjure-wife of Didion.

No one seemed to be pursuing her. Thanks to the cleverness of dear Lady Maude, it was probable that none of the guards up at Gentian Fell Lodge yet realized she was not lying sick abed. The weather had stayed fair and the lopsided moon had shone bright as day as she trudged through alpine meadows and valley forests with long and tireless strides. Finally, on the morn of the third day, she approached the gates of Beorbrook Town, above which towered the enormous Cathran fortress that guarded the approach to Great Pass. It was also the home of the Earl Marshal of the Realm, the Sovereign’s most trusted general, and his adopted son Prince Dyfrig.

She was too exhausted to go much further without a long sleep and good food. But if the prince was in residence, she was determined to pass on the secret letter from his mother as soon as possible. She’d have to tread cautiously to avoid raising suspicion, however; it would never do to simply approach the barbican of Beorbrook Hold and demand an audience. Lady Maude had cautioned her that more subtle means were called for. First she must make discreet inquiries. Then, if Dyfrig was at home, she would contact him by sending a note to the earl marshal’s daughter-in-law, Countess Morilye Kyle.

Rusgann stepped aside into a copse of alders, opened her pack, and set about altering her appearance. She tied her straggling grey-blonde hair into a neat bun, exchanged her black hat and cloak for the bright red headkerchief, fancy knitted shawl, and white apron of a north-country peasant woman, and rearranged her plain features into a more amiable expression.

Keeping her gaze lowered and her manner unobtrusive, she moved among other common folk through the eastern city gate into a lower-class commercial quarter with openair market stalls purveying fresh produce, poultry, and a wide variety of other inexpensive wares. She soon came upon a likely tavern situated next door to a stable. Sitting down with two other congenial-appearing female patrons who turned out to be an elderly mother and her buxom grown daughter, she ordered a hearty meal of chicken pottage with leeks and parsnips, rye bread, apple tart topped with clotted cream, and brown ale. Even before the food arrived, she and her table-companions were gossiping like old friends.

Rusgann pretended to be a mountain dweller from a remote steading, whose husband had recently died. Rather than endure a harsh winter alone in the highlands, she said, she’d sold off her goats and sheep to a neighbor and was on her way to join her sister’s family in a village far to the south, near Teme.

‘I’ve never visited a big city before,’ she admitted with naive enthusiasm. ‘Coming here is like a dream come true. What a wonderful market you have! A person could find anything her heart desired in such a place.’

The old woman cackled dismissively. ‘Why, this piss-poor little clutch of stalls is nothing compared to the grand market square over near Beorbrook Hold. Now that’s a market! Lords and ladies shop there for silks and jewels and fine wines from the Continent. And orn’ry bodies like us can buy real steel needles, and thread any color of the rainbow, and pastries and sweets good enough for a royal banquet.’

Rusgann’s eyes widened with simulated awe. ‘Might one see Marshal Parlian Beorbrook himself thereabouts? And his son, Prince Dyfrig?’

‘Nay,’ said the younger woman, speaking with her mouth full of meat pie. ‘They’re both up in Didion, fighting the Salka monsters with the Sovereign’s army – and so are most of Beorbrook’s warriors. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear about the invasion?’

‘Invasion!’ Rusgann gasped, feigning dismay. ‘Saint Zeth preserve us! I heard nothing about this. My steading is so far up in the mountains –’

‘Now, don’t be all in a flowster, dearie,’ the oldwife said soothingly. ‘The great slimy brutes aren’t anywhere near here. Back in Thunder Moon they bogged down someplace way up north in the Green Morass. Just came to a screeching halt for reasons nobody can fathom. Good thing, too – since it gave our Sovereign time to muster troops from all over the island. There’s a whackin’ great mob of fighting men gathered up around Boarsden on the River Malle, ready to smash the red-eyed fiends if they start to move again.’

‘Thank God,’ Rusgann exclaimed. ‘I suppose the earl marshal and Prince Dyfrig are with the troops.’

‘Where else?’ the pie-eating woman said, reaching for her cannikin of ale. ‘At Boarsden Castle, likely, where the great Council of War carries on wrangling.’ She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s said the yellow-belly Diddlies refuse to march into the morass after the foe, and High King Conrig can’t shift ‘em. The Cathran and Tarnian warriors are left twiddling their thumbs!’

‘Oh, my,’ said Rusgann. ‘So the Sovereign’s army just sits and waits? That doesn’t sound very wise.’

A potboy came up with her meal on a platter and demanded payment. She took coins from her well-filled purse.

‘Without Diddly guides, it’d be suicide to go into the morass,’ the oldwife observed with a sniff. ‘It’s not for the likes of us to second-guess kings and war-leaders.’

Rusgann grunted and fell upon the chicken stew like one starving. Her companions finished their own food and drink, and the beldame said, ‘Well, it’s time my daughter and I were off. Good luck in your journeying, lass. Be glad you’re going south, away from Didion and the horrid Salka.’

‘Well,’ Rusgann said with a wry grin, ‘I can only hope that my sister’s children don’t turn out to be monsters of another sort. Farewell!’

The two women smiled at her and left the tavern.

Rusgann sat back, sighing, and took a long pull of ale as she studied her surroundings. The place was clean enough and reasonably quiet. She’d seek a bed and get some sleep, then buy a strong saddle-mule from the adjacent stable. It would take her at least three days to reach Boarsden via Great Pass.