plain sight on the bank of a stream below the mouth of the cave. Of course the stone was inactive, not bonded to any groundling person and so unable to draw power from the Beaconfolk. The Ice-Master was only a bit of carved rock, as harmless to Beynor as it was worthless…for the time being, at least. Until he chose a loyal and amenable person to conjure the sigil for him, who would only use its sorcery as he commanded.
That encouraging first discovery had to sustain Beynor throughout nine more weary years of searching, when he finally found the second important moonstone, a finger-ring called Weathermaker. When he was Conjure-King of Moss he had owned another Great Stone of this type, and it had been his undoing. He had used it in a manner that the capricious Beaconfolk disapproved, and they’d snatched it from him, called down the curse, and driven him from his throne into exile among the Salka.
Now he possessed a second Weathermaker and an Ice-Master as well. Only a single major sigil from the depleted trove – Destroyer, the greatest of them all – remained to be found, along with the ancient book written in the Salka language containing spells for activating and controlling all manner of Great Stones. At that point, Beynor began thinking seriously about recruiting the necessary cat’s-paw who would enable him to evade the Lights’ curse.
He was almost – but not quite – certain that the puppet would have to possess windtalent.
Magickers not affiliated with the abhorrent Brothers of Zeth were uncommon in the nation of Cathra. But Elktor, Beynor’s base of operations, was close to the Didion border, and now and then an itinerant conjurer of that country would pass through the city. Those that Beynor encountered early on in his long quest he had deemed unsuitable for various reasons. Gorvik Kitstow, who had shown up in Elktor late the previous winter, was different. He was mildly talented, sharp as a bodkin in gulling the yokels out of silver pennies, yet not possessed of deep intelligence…or so Beynor had thought.
He decided to take Gorvik partially into his confidence, tell him something of the sigils’ background, and determine whether he might make a suitable collaborator. Meanwhile, the burly hedge-wizard could assist in the search, along with the boy Jegg.
Beynor resumed his labors in spring and was satisfied when Gorvik worked diligently and without asking inconvenient questions. Near the end of Blossom Moon the hedge-wizard found the innocuous-looking little stone wand called Destroyer, which Beynor believed was the key to supreme power. And then, on the day before yesterday, Gorvik also located the moonstone disk that was formerly affixed to the cover of the missing magic book. It was the last part of the trove Beynor needed to carry out his plan.
But should Gorvik Kitstow still be part of that plan?
Beynor now had serious doubts. If it were possible for an untalented, biddable lout such as young Jegg to use sigil magic, then far better to play it safe and bond the moonstones to him.
But the calamitous test had settled the matter decisively. The cat’s-paw must of necessity be a person of talent. But if not Gorvik, then who?
Out of nowhere, as he sipped his cup of spirits, stared at the leaping flames, and pondered the dilemma, a marvelous new idea came to the sorcerer. Why not make a more daring choice of creature – a man needing more subtle forms of control, who might nevertheless help Beynor achieve his goal far more quickly…?
Gorvik had been speaking for some minutes while Beynor was lost in thought. Now the man’s words became ominously clear.
‘All yer high and mighty plans, master, that ye tantalized me with while we hunted – I admit I was a wee bit skeptical anything’d come of ‘em. Ye hafta admit the idee of almighty Beaconfolk sorcery channeled through moonstones was unlikely. But seein’ what I seen today changed my mind. Ye tried to bond a sigil to young Jegg, who lacked talent as much as he lacked brains. The Lights rejected ‘im. It’s clear ye need a man with talent. So let’s get on with it. Bond the things to me. I’m not afeered.’
‘What makes you think that I might do such a thing?’
Gorvik Kitstow gave a knowing chuckle. ‘Well, ‘tis obvious that ye don’t want to try conjurin’ a sigil yerself. Else ye’d never have risked turnin’ over a powerful magical tool to a dolt like Jegg. Ye’d have made the thing yer own right off the mark if ye could. But maybe ye can’t! Maybe the Lights won’t let ye. Am I right?’ He winked.
‘Yes,’ Beynor said calmly. ‘You’ve hit on it exactly. I know how the Great Stones work, the way to conjure them. But I’m banned from using them myself. I require a faithful assistant – one possessing innate magical talent, not a normal-minded wight like Jegg – who will stand at my side as I drive the Salka into the sea, destroy the Sovereignty, and bring the human population of Blenholme to its knees…Do you believe you’re the man for it?’
Gorvik tossed down the last of his drink and rose to his feet. His head nearly grazed the roof of that part of the cave and his great knobby hands flexed. The gold tooth flashed in the firelight as his smile widened.
‘Well, I been thinkin’ on that. I did overhear ye tell Jegg the spell that conjures the moonstones. So I reckon it wouldn’t be that hard to use ‘em, once I called ‘em to life meself.’
‘You think that, do you?’ Beynor sat very still. For a time, there was silence except for the drip of rainwater and the snap of burning wood.
‘So I do,’ said Gorvik. There was no longer any trace of servility in his voice, only evil self-assurance. ‘Don’t be lookin’ to yer sword, nor reachin’ for yer dagger neither. Ye know how quick I be. And strong.’
‘Yes,’ said Beynor.
Gorvik began to edge closer.
‘Just keep yer hands resting on yer knees, unnerstand? Don’t move.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Ye were once a king, so y’say, and a great sorcerer. But now ye’re neither and the magical moonstones are no good to ye. So think how matters lie and decide if we two might make a diff’rent sort o’ bargain – with me the master and ye the man! Hand over the sigils now and keep yer life. What d’ye say?’
Beynor shrugged. ‘All right.’ He removed the small pouch holding the stones from his belt and held it up for the shabby wizard to see.
Then he tossed it into the fire.
Gorvik gave a bellow of rage. But before his hands could close on Beynor’s throat, the Mossland Sword of State hanging on the cave wall flew from its scabbard and transfixed his neck from side to side just below the jawbone. A great jet of blood spurted from the magicker’s open mouth, just missing Beynor. Gorvik toppled into the fire like a felled oak and smothered the flames.
Beynor rose to his feet and stepped back. He waited until the writhing body was still, drew out the sword, and wiped it on the dead man’s tunic. Then he hauled the corpse aside and retrieved the wallet, which was only slightly scorched. He dipped it into a rain puddle, poured the sigils out onto the stone seat very carefully, and inspected them.
They were unharmed. The disk, Weathermaker, Ice-Master, and the all-important Destroyer were not even warm to the touch.
‘To think I was foolish enough to consider bonding these to a lowborn blockhead,’ he murmured, ‘when the proper candidate has been awaiting me all these years!’
Beynor had made a near-fatal mistake with Gorvik, letting him overhear the spell of conjuration. That blunder would never happen
