and stirred the gritty ash with its tip. After a few moments he uncovered the ring carved from moonstone, together with a thin disk of the same material, narrowly framed in gold, that was less than a handspan in diameter. He stooped and retrieved them, and after wrapping each one carefully in cloth, slipped both objects into his wallet. He cleaned the sword against his bootcuff and replaced it in its scabbard.
‘Didja know Jegg ‘uz gonna die?’ Gorvik asked offhandedly. ‘I heard ye tell ‘im the Coldlight Army’d put power into the ring if he spoke the spell ye taught ‘im. But sumpin’ went way wrong, di’nit?’
The rain fell harder. Beynor started back up the slope toward the shelter of the den, where the three of them had camped out during the final summer of searching. ‘So you eavesdropped on us.’
‘Nay, master. Just caught a few words by chance, like. And wondered why ye’d let a simple knave like Jegg do conjurin’ for ye, steada doin’ it yerself – or givin’ the job to a born wiz like me.’
‘It was a test,’ Beynor said shortly. ‘One that was regrettably necessary. And whether you realize it or not, the test was a success.’
The hulking Didionite grinned, revealing a mouthful of stained broken teeth enriched by a single incongruous gold incisor that gleamed like a bright coin lying on a dungheap. ‘Not a success for Jegg, I’m thinkin’! Still, he weren’t much of a servant to ye, and none back in Elktor will miss ‘im. What went wrong? Why’d the Lights smite ‘im with their thunderbolt?’
Beynor re-entered the cave, not bothering to hide his impatience. He had not borne the long years of frustration easily, and his gaunt frame and sunburnt narrow features framed by sparse platinum hair made him look much older than his seven-and-thirty years. Once inside he doffed his wet cloak and hung it on a peg pounded into a crevice. He was attired in a grey leather hunting habit, well made but worn from rough usage and badly scuffed about the knees. After removing his sword belt and hanging the heavy weapon from a second peg, he put more fuel on the smoldering fire and sat down on a flat stone opposite the flow of acrid smoke. The vagrant wisps that threatened him he diverted with his talent.
‘Fetch me a double dram of spirits,’ he commanded Gorvik.
‘There’s only a wee bit left, master,’ the wizard protested. ‘I was savin’ it for –’
‘Pour it out, damn you! There’s no need to stay here any longer. Don’t you understand that our endless searching in this miserable place is done? I have the three Great Stones. It matters not if there are lesser ones still lying about somewhere. I’m leaving. I won’t return.’
‘But the magical book –’
‘The bear who scattered the contents of the bag originally hidden in this cave obviously left the book in an exposed place where it was destroyed by vermin and the elements. That moonstone disk you found this morning in the ravine is all that remains of it. The disk was once fastened to the book’s cover.’
Gorvik’s piggy eyes gleamed in sudden understanding. ‘Ah! Then it’s the disk you needed to conjure yer three sigils – not the book itself.’
‘Using the spells written down in the book would have been much safer. But, yes: the stones can be brought to life in another way with the disk. A more perilous way, as young Jegg discovered.’
The big magicker took the jug of liquor and two dented pewter cups from the rocky shelf that held their nearly depleted supply of food and drink. He was dressed in a ragged fustian tunic and cross-gartered leggings, and had only a short hooded cape of ill-tanned goatskin to keep off the elements. He thrust a half-cup of malt into Beynor’s outstretched hand, then poured a generous noggin for himself and sat down on another rock, mumbling under his breath.
‘What did you say?’ Beynor asked sharply.
‘I said ye killed that lad on purpose, master. Or rather – ye let the Beaconfolk blast ‘im to ashes and soot. I’m wonderin’ why. What good are magical moonstone amulets if the Lights slay the one who uses ‘em?’
Beynor stared at the fire and sipped his drink. Almost absently, he said, ‘They only slay persons they consider unworthy.’
‘And Jegg was?’
‘Yes. Obviously.’
‘But ye di’nt know that aforehand?’
‘Not really,’ Beynor admitted with peevish reluctance. ‘I hoped he would survive but was almost certain he would not.’
Gorvik nodded in slow satisfaction. ‘And that was the test. I see. Now I unnerstand.’
Beynor lifted his head and shot a glance like a steel dart at the big man squatting near him. Yes, the cunning rascal had almost certainly guessed the truth…
Beynor had searched for the three lost Great Stones of Darasilo’s Trove and the book that accompanied them for sixteen years, combing the region around the bear’s lair in the high moorlands east of Elktor in Cathra where he knew the trove had disappeared. Sigils, even the inactive ones he hunted, could not be perceived through windsight; they had to be sought using the naked eyes. He made a map of the area, drew a grid of squares upon it, and set out to search each square, patiently lifting every rock and bit of vegetation that might conceal a small amulet.
He labored throughout the temperate months of each year, then retired to lonely rooms in Elktor City during the winter, when snow and severe cold made spending long hours outdoors impossible, occupying himself by windwatching his foes and trying to invade their dreams.
During the early years of his search Beynor had hired sturdy dullards such as Jegg to assist him in his fatiguing work, men or boys he was confident would not understand the value of the things he sought. But the kind of helper he really needed was a fellow-adept – not a brilliant magicker, but one he could dominate and use as a cat’s-paw, thus circumventing the curse laid on him by the Beaconfolk.
Long years ago, when Beynor lost his throne, the Great Lights had told him that he would be cast into the Hell of Ice if he attempted to activate and use any moonstone sigils. He still possessed powerful inborn magical talents, but these were inadequate to raise him to the lofty position his twisted ambition craved.
A scheme of his to neutralize the Beaconfolk’s curse with the help of the Salka had fallen apart on the day the huge amphibians invaded the Conjure-Kingdom of Moss and discovered that Queen Ullanoth’s collection of sigils, which Beynor had promised to turn over to them, was inexplicably gone.
In the months that followed, the sorcerer had lived furtively, outlawed by Somarus, King of Didion, whose Lord Chancellor had once been Beynor’s co-conspirator and was now his mortal enemy. The faint hope of finding some of Darasilo’s lost sigils and using them to bring down two kings – and his nemesis Kilian Blackhorse as well – then became Beynor’s principal motive for living.
He knew the remains of Darasilo’s Trove had been hidden in a rocky den on the high moorlands east of Elktor in northern Cathra. But soon after reaching the place, he made the heartbreaking discovery that a cavebear had chewed up the leather fardel holding the precious items and scattered its contents about the hillside. Beynor slew the animal by flinging a magical fireball into its wide-open jaws. Then he began what he feared would be a futile search for the sigils and the magical book.
Luck was with him, however. After only a few weeks, he recovered the first missing Great Stone.
It
