Kitabı oku: «Sky Trillium», sayfa 6

‘Very well,’ said Antar. ‘You may carry on.’

The General touched his helm-visor in salute and spun his fronial about. But before he could ride away there were shouts from the knights ahead. ‘Spawn! Spawn on the road!’

Gorkain swore and spurred his mount forward, drawing his two-handed sword. Marshal Lakanilo and a dozen Oathed Companions closed in around the King, the Queen, and Immu, lances couched, while others of the elite group followed the General.

An excruciating foul odour spread through the air. For a time everyone was quiet and the only sounds were distant hoof-beats, the creak of harness, and the hiss and patter of the rain.

Then Immu whispered, ‘See there!’ She pointed to a dark slough at the right of the mireway, half-screened by thornless fodderfern twice the height of a man.

Rising from the scummy water were dozens of glistening white shapes, some nearly the size of a human body, others much smaller. They resembled odious fat worms or grubs, lacking obvious heads but having stubby limbs equipped with razorlike claws. Their foreparts lifted as they reached the narrow verge beside the roadbed, revealing wide open mouths with green teeth that dripped venom. The blind monsters swayed from side to side questing for prey, which they tracked with their keen hearing.

For an instant the riders were frozen with horror. Then one young knight exclaimed, ‘Zoto’s Stones, what detestable things! Like giant corpse-maggots!’

At the sound of his voice the Skritek spawn began humping and wriggling up the embankment toward the road.

King Antar’s longsword sang as it left its scabbard. ‘Follow me, Oathed Companions!’

He sent his fronial skidding down the steep slope, the Lord Marshal and the knights following closely after, and with a single sweeping stroke he smote one of the leading spawn in two. It disintegrated, splashing vile jelly-like ichor all over the King. The Companions spitted other bloodthirsty Skritek young on their lances or put them to the sword, crying out in anger and disgust as they were also drenched by evil-smelling fluids from the spawn bodies.

Lakanilo’s fronial fell to the muddy ground, squealing in agony, its foreleg held fast in poisoned jaws. But the Companions raced to the Lord Marshal’s rescue, hauling him to safety, slaying the tenaciously clinging spawn, and granting merciful death to the doomed antilopine steed.

It was not long before all of the larvae were either killed or fled, leaving Antar and the knights beslimed from helm to heel. Victorious cries from the road ahead signalled that the other pod of immature Skritek had also been routed by Gorkain and his men.

‘Well done,’ cried Queen Anigel warmly.

But the King looked down upon his filthied person with a grimace. ‘Only the Triune knows how we shall remove this mess from ourselves, unless we take a headlong leap into the swamp and exchange mud for spawn-slime.’

As if in answer, thunder rumbled overhead and a deluge of rain pelted down. Antar removed his helm, tilted his head so water bathed his face, and laughed. ‘Thank you, gracious Lords of the Air! By the time the main column catches up with us, we may almost be fit for civilized society again.’

‘Perhaps you should return to your carriage, my Queen,’ Lord Marshal Lakanilo suggested to Anigel. He was a tall man of sparse flesh, whose manner was grave and dignified in spite of his befouled appearance. He had been appointed to his office following the heroic death of Lord Marshal Owanon in the Battle of Derorguila.

The Queen shook her head, dismissing the suggestion that she should retire. ‘Heavens, no, Lako! With the smell of Skritek now stronger than ever, my ladies will wrap their faces in perfume-soaked veils. Frankly, my nose is less offended by the smell of the monsters.’

Princess Janeel and Crown Prince Nikalon came cantering up with a group of noble attendants and gave noisy greeting to their parents and the Oathed Companions.

‘Phew!’ cried the Princess, pinching her nose. ‘The spawn-reek is much worse up here – oh!’ She screamed at the sight of the slaughtered creatures.

‘They are quite dead, my Lady,’ the Lord Marshal said. ‘There is nothing to fear.’

Prince Nikalon had drawn his sword and his eyes were alight as he surveyed the noisome remains. ‘Are you certain, Lako? Perhaps we’d better reconnoitre the swamp. I’m ready!’ At fifteen, he had nearly attained a man’s stature and wore a helm and breastplate and military cape.

‘Ready ready ready!’ Immu exclaimed crossly. ‘Your royal parents and the Oathed Companions must now feel very relieved that such a great champion has arrived.’

‘Oh, Immu,’ groaned the Prince. The knights were laughing, but with good humour for they all were very fond of the impetuous Niki.

‘There is no need for us to leave the road,’ Antar said. ‘Indeed, it would be foolhardy for us to do so, since the water continues to rise.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I missed the fight. I never saw Skritek spawn before.’ The boy sheathed his sword and began questioning the knights about the attack, and the Lord Marshal sent off for another mount.

Janeel rode closer to her parents and the little old nurse, expressing relief when she was told that the only casualty was a single fronial. ‘What horrible things the spawn are! Is it true that they kill their dams at birth?’

‘More often than not,’ Immu said. ‘Adult Skritek have the use of reason – more or less! – but the young are ravening and mindless. If the mother is lucky, she may leap to safety as each larval offspring drops from her womb, and the spawn will feed upon meat she has provided. But it is more common for the offspring to awaken before birth and gnaw their way from confinement through the mother’s body wall.’

‘Ugh!’ said Janeel. Her face had gone white within the hood of her raincape and she would gladly have departed the nauseating scene, were it not that Queen Anigel seemed unfazed. ‘No wonder Skritek know nothing of love or gentleness.’

‘And yet,’ Prince Nikalon interposed with grisly relish, having rejoined his parents and sister, ‘the Skritek are the oldest race in the world, and sages say all Folk are descended from them. Even you, Immu!’

‘I thought humankind was the most ancient race,’ the Princess said.

‘We did not originate in this world,’ said the Queen. ‘Your Aunt Haramis the Archimage learned that human beings came here from the Outer Firmament uncounted aeons in the past. The Vanished Ones were our ancestors.’

‘What is even more amazing,’ said King Antar very quietly, ‘is that the Vanished Ones used the blood of both Skritek and humanity to fashion a Folk-race that might withstand the Conquering Ice.’

‘But … why?’ The Princess, unlike her older brother, had never heard the story; nor had most other people, for the Archimage had decided that it must be kept secret, except among the royal family and its most trusted confidants.

‘The ancient humans felt guilty abandoning the world their warring had largely destroyed,’ Antar said. ‘You see, Jan, the Vanished Ones believed that the ice they had unwittingly created twelve-times-ten hundreds ago would devour all the world’s land, save for the continental margins and some islands. They thought the Skritek would surely die, leaving the world devoid of rational beings. But that did not happen. The ice failed to conquer after all, and both the Skritek and the new race of hardy Folk lived on together. So did certain stubborn humans who had remained behind when the rest Vanished into the Outer Firmament.’

‘Those aborigines that we call Vispi,’ said the Queen, ‘the high-mountain dwellers who aided your Aunt Haramis in obtaining her talisman and who are now her special Folk, are the result of that long-ago experiment. They are the true firstborn, combining the Skritek and human lineage. Of course they give birth in human fashion, as other high races of Folk do.’

‘But the Vispi are so beautiful,’ Jan said, ‘while the other races of Folk are – ‘ She broke off, realizing how improper it was to speak thus before the old Nyssomu nurse. ‘Oh, Immu, I beg pardon. I did not mean to insult you.’

‘I take no offence, sweeting.’ Immu was calm. ‘To Nyssomu and Uisgu the Vispi appear unattractive. You call them beautiful merely because they most resemble yourselves.’

‘But how, then, did the other races of Folk come about?’ Janeel inquired.

‘Some were engendered through new infusions of Skritek blood,’ said the Queen in a sombre tone.

The Princess thought over the horrid implications of this, and she and her brother were silent for some time.

Then Immu added, ‘Over the ages, fresh human blood also contributed to the racial mixing. In ancient times, humans often mated with Folk. It is just within the last six hundreds that your people began to call mine Oddlings, insisting that we are inferior beings. In other human kingdoms, the disdain for us persists. Only in Laboruwenda are the Folk acknowledged to have souls, and certain of us are granted the privileges of citizenship.’

‘I will see that the nation of Raktum does likewise,’ Princess Janeel stated offhandedly, ‘when I marry Ledavardis and become its queen.’

‘Oh, Jan!’ Anigel exclaimed angrily. ‘You know I have forbidden you to speak of that matter before your Royal Father.’

‘What’s this?’ Antar glared at his daughter. ‘Don’t tell me she still fancies that Goblin Kinglet?’

‘Ledavardis of Raktum is a brave man,’ Janeel said, ‘and no more a goblin than Niki is. Even though his body is not handsome, he is noble of heart.’

‘So you say!’ The furious King spoke to the Princess through clenched teeth, and his blond beard bristled. ‘To my mind, the Raktumians are naught but half-reformed pirates, and no daughter of mine will wed their malformed King! How can you forget that Raktum allied with Tuzamen and the despicable Orogastus to make war upon us?’

‘Ledo fought and surrendered with honour,’ Janeel retorted. ‘And he has ever since then commanded his people to change their old lawless ways and behave in a civilized manner.’

‘Civilized!’ The King’s laugh was contemptuous. ‘Nothing has changed in the pirate kingdom, except now the Raktumian corsairs commit their crimes on the sly, whereas before they were bold as the vipers of Viborn. You shall never marry Ledavardis.’

The Princess burst into tears. ‘You care nothing for my happiness, Father. The real reason why you reject Ledo is your vain hope that I will marry King Yondrimel of Zinora, that scheming braggart. But you will never force me to accept him! Let him marry one of Queen Jiri’s daughters.’

‘Jan, my dearest!’ Queen Anigel hastened to intervene. ‘I beseech you to forbear. This is not the place for such discussion. Let us wait until we reach the next hostel, and – ‘

Her words were drowned out by a colossal thunderbolt. Simultaneously the mireway shook as with an earthquake, and a flash of light blinded all beholders. The rain now fell prodigiously. Shouts arose from the shocked knights, who had withdrawn some distance in order to give the royal family privacy. The fronials shied in terror from the unexpected noise, and the King forgot his anger as he strove to prevent his daughter’s crazed steed from slipping off the road into the swirling floodwaters.

Prince Nikalon was similarly occupied with the distraught mount of his mother. Anigel’s ramping white beast pawed the savage downpour with its split hooves and tossed its antlered head wildly. The Queen regained control only with difficulty after Niki dismounted and clung to her bridle. Several ells away, the young fronial Immu rode lay on its belly near the road’s left-hand edge, shaking with terror, while its rider urged it vainly to rise. But then Princess Janeel’s animal escaped Antar’s grasp and nearly trampled the colt and Immu as it galloped back down the road toward the main column.

Oathed Companions!’ cried the Queen. ‘After the Princess!’ And to her son, ‘Save Immu! Look – the verge of the mireway near her is crumbling!’

Prince Nikalon leapt back onto his mount and went pounding down the rain-lashed road. Leaning from the saddle, he swept up the little Nyssomu woman just as the fronial colt tumbled down the embankment and vanished without a sound into churning muddy water.

‘Bring Immu to me, Niki,’ the Queen shouted, ‘then aid your father and sister!’

Anigel could not understand why the Oathed Companions had not come to the rescue. Her sight of the knights on the road ahead was obscured by the pounding rain and the growing darkness, but she heard their shouts amidst continuing rumbles of thunder and a strange rushing sound. When Immu was safe on the pillion behind her and the Prince gone to Antar, who had halted Janeel’s runaway mount some distance away, the Queen put spur to her fronial in order to fetch the Companions. But the white beast skidded to an abrupt halt after taking only a few bounds.

‘Great God, the road!’ Anigel screamed, looking down from the saddle.

Between the Queen and her knights stretched a steep break in the mireway over five ells wide. It appeared that lightning had blasted the road asunder. High water formerly impounded on one side of the causeway was now pouring through, laden with downed trees and other floating debris. Before Anigel could recover from her astonishment another brilliant flash and a shattering clap of thunder rocked the Mazy Mire, causing her mount to stagger.

‘Hold tight, Immu!’ she cried, reining the animal’s head far to the right, so that it whirled in tight circles, squealing. But it did not panic this time and she was able to calm it at last, urging it back toward the King and the children.

Then the beast again stopped abruptly. Anigel gasped as she saw a second gap in the mireway, narrower than the first but growing wider every second as swift waters chewed away at the road’s foundation.

The Queen and Immu were marooned on a small island of cobblestone pavement in the midst of a raging flood.

‘Ani!’ howled the King, and Nikalon and Janeel cried, ‘Mother!’

Thunder seemed to give a mocking answer. The Oathed Companions stood helpless on their side of the severed road, but several carts and numbers of men-at-arms had finally reached the King. One quick-thinking fellow dashed up to Antar with a coil of rope, and both father and son dismounted and helped to fling it across the water.

Anigel and Immu also slid from the saddle, crouching at the lip of the shrinking section of mireway. Twice the rope failed to reach them; but on the third throw Immu took hold of it, screeching in triumph and nearly falling into the rising flood.

‘Come!’ the nurse cried to the Queen. ‘Knot it about your waist!’

Anigel tried, but at that moment the waters undermined the roadbed beneath and the cobbles under her feet shifted and separated. She fell into a shallow, water-filled hole, her arms and legs entangled in her long raincape. Dropping the rope, Immu scrambled to Anigel and helped to free her. Queen and nurse crawled over the treacherous, dissolving surface while the King recoiled the rope and flung it again and again across the widening breach.

But the line kept falling short, and soon the island of roadway would be entirely washed away.

‘Your trillium-amber!’ Immu screamed at the Queen above the roar of the storm. ‘Bid it save us!’

They were clinging to each other. Anigel took hold of her magical amulet with one hand, holding Immu tightly with the other. Behind them, the white fronial scrabbled and shrieked, consumed with terror. The ground melted under it and it was swept away into the torrent.

A third monstrous explosion sounded at the same time that lightning struck. Stones, broken timber, clots of muddy earth, and roiling mist filled the air, together with shouts from the frustrated rescuers.

Queen Anigel felt herself falling, felt Immu torn away from her grasp, felt strangely painless blows from the wind-flung branches whirling all around her, felt her slow slide into dark, rushing water that filled her mouth and nose, choking off her prayer to the Black Trillium.

Then she felt nothing.

CHAPTER 8

The viaduct on Mount Brom was situated in the Cavern of Black Ice.

Long ages ago it had given the Vanished Ones access to their mysterious storage place deep in the Ohogan Mountains. And now, as Haramis had anticipated, the viaduct provided the sorcerer Orogastus with a means of entry to her Tower. Through her magical Three-Winged Circle she watched him emerge out of nowhere, through a dark disc without thickness that vanished with a loud bell-chime as soon as he was beyond it. He wore his silver-and-black Star Master regalia, including the gauntlets and the awesome starburst headpiece that hid the upper part of his face.

He stood quietly in the very middle of the cavern’s obsidian-tiled floor, looking at the vault of quartz-veined granite soaring overhead and at the hundreds of alcoves, compartments, and roomlets on every side. The peculiar illumination of the place, shining from unseen sources, caused the icy extrusions in the rock crevices to gleam like polished onyx.

The sorcerer seemed bemused as he walked slowly toward the exit, perhaps remembering the time that the Cavern of Black Ice and its wondrous contents had belonged to him. The glassy dark doors to the chambers and niches were all open. A few sophisticated trinkets and trifles remained, but were useless to his purposes. The compartments that had contained ancient weapons, or other devices intended to intimidate or harm, were empty.

‘So you destroyed them, did you?’ He addressed thin air, knowing she viewed him through her talisman. ‘And yet you kept the most deadly instrument of all! Did it never occur to you that the other two parts of the Sceptre of Power would be denied their greatest, most awful usage if there were no Three-Winged Circle?’

Haramis said nothing. She had thought of it, had even contemplated throwing the Circle into one of the active volcanos in the Flame-Girt Isles when it became obvious that the other two talismans had passed into the hands of a person unknown. But that small silvery wand had been purchased at such a great cost to herself; and the original purpose of the Threefold Sceptre, thwarted twelve thousand years ago, had never ceased to intrigue her. She could not bring herself to cast the talisman away.

Orogastus reached a large wooden door encrusted with hoarfrost and addressed her once more. The set of his mouth had become ironic. ‘Do I have your permission to enter the Tower, White Lady? It is mine, after all, even though you have made free with it for these sixteen years.’

Haramis made the door swing silently open. He would be allowed this single visit, during which she would do that which must be done.

The sorcerer bowed his thanks and hurried up the rough corridor that he himself had bored through the mountain with one of the ancient devices. Memories crowded his mind. He had dwelt here on Mount Brom during most of his frustrating association with Voltrik, late King of Labornok, and here he had trained his first three followers. The Green, Blue, and Red Voices (may the Dark Powers grant them eternal joy!) had not only served him faithfully unto death, but had also helped amplify his thaumaturgical vision … as had their three less-worthy successors. Now, of course, thanks to the Dark Man and Nerenyi Darai, he needed no help from other minds in order to command the full magic of the Star.

Unfortunately, the Star alone would not suffice to fulfil his ultimate design. For that, he would require the Threefold Sceptre. Obtaining two parts of it would be comparatively easy; but the third piece belonged to Haramis, and taking it from her by force or coercion was very likely impossible.

There was an alternative, and he had come here tonight to explore it …

At the tunnel’s end he found himself at the lowest level of the Tower’s stairwell. He stood on flagstones just across from the main entry, sampling the aura of his former home. It was much different from the way he remembered it, permeated with the Black Trillium’s alien enchantment. Now this Tower belonged to Haramis absolutely. For an instant a brief thrust of fear touched him. Would the Star grant him sufficient protection?

In truth, he did not know. But he had come anyway.

On either side were storage chambers, now quite empty, and the stable where he had once kept his mounts, and the small room housing machinery for the bridge that spanned the chasm outside. He was not surprised to discover that the mechanism he had tended so carefully was now rusty and neglected. No one used his amazing bridge any more. The White Lady called upon her preternatural powers for travel, and the Vispi aborigines who were her servants flew wherever they wished on gigantic birds that dwelt among the nearby crags.

Except for the night wind, faintly audible through the thick walls, the Tower was silent. There was no hint of her presence, but he knew she awaited him and he knew where to find her. Climbing the spiral stairs, he wondered if she felt as torn by this impending meeting as he did. He was here on her sufferance. It would have been easy enough for her to destroy the tunnel connecting the cavern and the Tower, so that the viaduct became a dead end. But she had forborne.

The last time the two of them had shared the Tower’s shelter she had been little more than a girl, newly possessed of a talisman with powers unknown to her, foolhardy and susceptible to the appeal of a handsome older man. He should have been able to bewitch her as easily as a newborn tree-vart.

Instead, she had bewitched him.

He reached the library, the place where they had shared their first and last kiss, and opened the door. It had been his favourite place, his sanctuary, crammed with the rarest and most valuable volumes in the world. She had not changed it much. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the tall windows on this evening of biting cold. Two high-backed armchairs cushioned in rich red damask were drawn up close to the comfort of the fireplace. Between them was a pedestal table with a flagon of white wine, two chunky cut-glass goblets in the Vispi style, and a plate of small sweetcakes.

She arose from one of the chairs, for a moment nothing but a dark silhouette against orange flames. Then she stepped forward so that the light from the quaint library-lamps of the Vanished Ones showed her clearly, and he felt his heart catch in his throat. Her black hair fell in glistening tresses to her waist. She wore a white velvet gown with silver-blue fur at the wide sleeves and hem, and a belt of soft azure inset with moonstone. Her underdress was powder-blue challis, embroidered with tiny Black Trilliums at the neck, where the wand of the Three-Winged Circle hung on its chain.

‘Good day to you, Star Master,’ Haramis said. ‘Dressed for combat, I see. What a shame! I had hoped for a brief truce while we discussed what is to come.’

And that was a lie. A small one, but the first Haramis had ever told since becoming Archimage of the Land, done deliberately in order to provoke him into the actions that must follow …

He said nothing, but deliberately pulled off the silver gauntlets and dropped them on the carpeted floor. Then he removed his headpiece and black cloak, also letting them fall. Doffing his odd vestment of metal mesh with its shining black leather panels, he stood before her clad in a simple tunic of unbleached wool, and trews of darker material stuffed into high boots. A pouch laden with something heavy hung from his belt.

‘Greetings to you, Archimage of the Land.’ His voice, unfiltered by the talisman’s magic, was as mellifluous and beguiling as she remembered it to be. But his face was older than the portrait had shown, gaunt and weathered, having deep creases between the pale eyes and on either side of his mouth. ‘Behold! I have cast away the habiliments of sorcery and herewith invite an armistice.’

‘I accept,’ she said, lying for the second time. And in a gesture that was clearly a challenge, she lifted the Three-Winged Circle on its chain from around her neck and placed it on the table.

A breathless silence followed. He came closer and one of his long-fingered hands stretched out and hovered over the wand. The three tiny wings at the top of the Circle unfolded and the glow of the trillium-amber within throbbed a warning.

‘Would you really let it slay me?’ he asked in a playful tone.

She shrugged. ‘If you wish to take my talisman up, Star Master, I grant you permission to do so. It will not harm you, but you will find it as unresponsive as a common fork or spoon. You know it obeys only its bonded owner – and even then, sometimes capriciously.’

He laughed, then took the wine-flagon from the table instead, filling goblets for both of them. ‘Capriciously indeed. Let us both pray that whoever now owns the other two talismans experiences as much trouble learning to command them as we did.’

‘So you know that Kadiya’s Eye was stolen.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it taken by one of your agents?’

He smiled enigmatically. ‘The thief is no ally of mine … yet.’

She ignored the provocation, her eyes fixed upon his Star. ‘I have set aside my talisman. Can we not, at least for a little while, forswear magic and meet as man and woman?’

His eyelids lowered, veiling his gaze. Did he dare to face her unprotected? But he was confident that she would never be so base as to violate a truce, just as he was confident that her love for him had endured.

He lifted the Star medallion from his neck and lay it on the table next to her talisman. Then they both sat down, she rather stiffly and he in an easy sprawl, warming his boots by the fire.

‘So you have been spying upon my sisters,’ Haramis said.

‘I cannot see them individually, as you know well enough, because they are shielded by their trillium-amber. But their associates have unwittingly revealed what has been going on. The theft of the Burning Eye is a most vexing development – and a puzzling one as well. One must ask why this mysterious burglar has made no use of the magical loot. Is he a paragon of prudence, content to keep both talismans safely hidden? Is the thief too timid to wield them, knowing that the Vanished Ones themselves were afraid of their terrible power? Or is our wily pilferer merely cautious? Has he been testing the magical devices in unobtrusive ways until he attains expertise and confidence in their use?’

‘I think we will find out before long,’ Haramis said with dark certainty, ‘and to our woe.’

‘Perhaps, Archimage,’ he said lightly, ‘we should consider an alliance against this mutual menace.’

Her smile was cold. ‘I am no longer the simple child you hoped to win over to your Dark Powers, Star Master.’

‘I know that full well. And you shall discover that I am no longer the man I was when I last contended with the Petals of the Living Trillium and … went the way of the Vanished Ones.’

For an instant, ardent hope transfigured her face. But then she looked away from him, lips tightening in unrelenting resolve. ‘I can only judge you by your actions, which tell me you are the same as ever: charming, persuasive, and completely ruthless in the pursuit of your evil ambition.’

He threw back his head and laughed, and his brilliantly white hair reflected the fire like high clouds at sundown. His amusement was youthful, heartfelt, having in it nothing of slyness or cynicism. ‘You know nothing of my present ambition, dear Haramis, any more than you know where I was held captive while you thought me dead.’ His eyes sparkled as he bent closer to her over the table. ‘Would you care to hear the tale?’

She nodded, still frowning, not trusting herself to speak.

He sat back then and took a deep draught of the wine. ‘It was the Great Cynosure that saved me, of course – that magical device of my Guild that was created as a countermeasure to the Sceptre of Power, drawing to it any wearer of the Star who is smitten with the Sceptre’s magic. Twice it has preserved my life. The first time, with the existence of the Cynosure unbeknownst to any of us, I was drawn to the Inaccessible Kimilon deep within the icecap and marooned there for twelve years. I knew not how I had been transported to that Land of Fire and Ice. The Archimage Iriane made off with the Cynosure after it had done its work and in time gave it to you. Cruel Haramis! You intended to use it to imprison me forever in that Chasm of Durance that lies beneath the Place of Knowledge. But death would have been more merciful.’

‘I – I hoped you would amend your ways. I could not bear to destroy you, even indirectly.’ Her eyes were fixed upon her tightly clasped hands lying in her lap. She felt ashamed, as he knew she would. He was manipulating her feelings again, as he had done before. But this time the outcome would be different.

‘As it happened,’ he went on, ‘another person thwarted your plan. He took the Cynosure from the chasm just before you and your sisters conquered me with the Sceptre for the second time. And thus it was that I awoke to find myself safe abed … within one of the Three Moons.’

‘By the Flower!’ Haramis cried in sudden understanding. ‘Denby! And now I suppose he has sent you back to carry on where you left off. Oh, the perfidious wretch! What manner of Archimage is he to play such games with the very balance of the world?’

‘In my opinion, the Dark Man is a senile lunatic, but one who nevertheless taught me much. Do you know who the Archimage of the Firmament really is?’

‘Iriane told me something of his aloof and vagarious ways. I know he is very old and cares little for events of our world. Yet he did vouchsafe to us the assistance of those sindona called Sentinels of the Mortal Dictum, defeating your army and saving the Two Thrones. Why he saved you –’ She shook her head.