Sorcerer of the North (14 page)

"What do they ever know? They can't explain his condition. Nor can they do anything to ease it. Occasionally, he rouses himself enough to take a little food, but he's barely conscious even then. And then he's gone again, back into his trance."

Will set his empty coffee mug down, thought about another cup, then reluctantly dismissed the idea. Since he'd been living by himself, he had become a coffee hound and it was time to moderate his behavior.

"Is this anything to do with that business last night?" he asked. "That mysterious warrior person and such?"

Again, Gelderris hesitated before answering. But it seemed easier to discuss these matters in the bright light of morning. "If you ask me, yes," he said. "People say that Malkallam has returned to Grimsdell Wood."

"Malkallam?" Will repeated.

"A Black Artist. A sorcerer. One of the worst kind, apparently. He had a feud with Syron's ancestor, going back a hundred years..."

"A hundred years?" Will repeated, edging his voice with disbelief. "How long does a sorcerer live, anyway?"

Gelderris raised an admonishing finger. "Don't be too quick to disbelieve," he said. "Nobody knows how long sorcerers can live. I'd say it's pretty much up to the sorcerer himself. But these goings-on in Grimsdell don't have any other explanation. Nor does Lord Syron's strange sickness. Stories go that it was exactly the same sickness struck down his ancestor when he fought with Malkallam."

"So if this Malkallam is in Grimsdell Wood, why doesn't someone from Macindaw take a few soldiers in and give him a seeing to?" Will asked. "Somebody must have taken charge if Syron's incapable?"

"You don't just march into Grimsdell Wood, Will Barton. It's a tangle of trees and undergrowth in there, with paths that twist and turn on themselves and branches above you so thick you only see the sun at noon. There's the mere as well. Step in that and you'll sink to the bottom and never be seen again."

Will considered that fact for a few moments. The tavern keeper was turning out to be a mine of information.

"So there's nobody in charge at Macindaw?" he said, and added, "That's a blow. I was hoping to winter there—at least a few weeks."

Gelderris pursed his lips. "Oh, you'll most likely find a position there. Syron's son has taken over the running of things. Strange cove he is, too," he added darkly. Will looked up quickly.

"Strange, you say?" he prompted, and Gelderris nodded emphatically.

"There are those who say he might even be behind his father's illness. He's very withdrawn, very mysterious. Wears a black robe like a monk, although he's no man of the church. A scholar, he calls himself. But what does he study, I want to know."

"You think he might be this ..." Will hesitated, seeming to search for the name, although he knew it well enough. "Malkallam?" he concluded. Gelderris looked a little uncomfortable now that he had been asked point-blank to make a statement one way or the other. He shifted in his seat.

"I'm not saying that it's so," he said finally. "But I'm saying I wouldn't be too surprised if it were. Word has it that Orman spends all his time in his tower room, studying books and old scrolls that he's got his hands on. He may be lord of Macindaw, but he's no leader of men—no warrior. Thankfully, Sir Keren is there to look after that side of things."

Will raised an eyebrow at the new name. Gelderris needed no further prompting.

"Syron's nephew—Orman's cousin. He's a fine warrior—some years younger than Orman but a natural leader and popular with the men-at-arms. I often thought that perhaps Lord Syron would have preferred it if Keren were his son, rather than Orman."

"This close to the Picta border, you'd have need of a good warrior in the castle," Will mused, and the tavern keeper nodded assent.

"That's a fact. There's more than one of us is glad Keren is there. If the Scotti ever got wind that a weak leader like Orman was in charge, we'd all be wearing kilts and eating haggis before the month was out."

Will rose and stretched. "Ah well, it's all politics and that's beyond a simple man like myself. As long as I can get a bed and lodging at Orman's castle and make a little money to see me on my way, I'll be content. But tonight, of course, I'll spend in your castle."

Cullum seemed content with the news. He gestured to the coffeepot warming by the fire.

"Fine by me. Want some more coffee while it's fresh?"

Good intentions flew out the window. Will reflected that gathering intelligence was thirsty work. He picked up his mug.

"Why not?" he said.

Will left late the following morning, his purse a good deal heavier than it had been when he arrived. The tavern keeper had been right. Once word spread that there was a jongleur in the village, people had flocked in from the surrounding countryside. The tavern had done a roaring trade and Will was kept singing until well past midnight, by which time he had exhausted his repertoire and was having to resort to the pretense that people had asked him to repeat songs he had already performed—another trick Berrigan had taught him.

Gelderris stood by as Will tightened the girths on Tug and his packhorse. "A good night," he said. "Call by again when you're passing south, Will Barton."

He didn't resent Will's leaving. He was realistic enough to know that simple country folk couldn't afford more than one night of overspending in the tavern.

"I'll do that," Will said, swinging easily into the saddle. He reached down and clasped Gelderris's hand. "Thanks, Cullum. I'll see you then."

The tavern keeper sniffed the damp air and looked uncertainly at the clouds gathering in the north.

"You'll do well to keep an eye on the weather. There's snow in those clouds. If it starts to blizzard, take shelter in the trees until it eases. A man can lose his way all too easily in a whiteout."

"I'll bear it in mind," said Will. He glanced at the clouds himself. "Mind you, chances are I'll reach Macindaw before it snows." He touched Tug with his heel and the little horse moved away, the pack animal following stolidly behind. The dog went ahead, head down and belly low, glancing back continually to be sure Will was following.

"Maybe so," said Gelderris, more to himself than to Will's retreating form. But he didn't sound convinced.

He was right. Will was barely a third of the way on his journey when the big, fat flakes began to drift down from the sky. He had felt the temperature dropping, then there was the inexplicable moment when it rose a few degrees, signaling the onset of the snow. Then it was falling, without any other warning. He pulled his hood up and huddled inside the warmth of his cloak. It intrigued him how snow falling seemed to deaden all sound, although perhaps this was an illusion, he thought. It seemed logical to expect such large objects to make a noise when they fell to earth—after all, you could hear rain when it fell. Perhaps it was this lack of any falling sound that created the illusion of overall silence. Of course, as the snow on the ground grew deeper, it muffled the sound of his horses' hoof-beats. There was only the slight squeaking sound of the dry, powdery crystals being compressed with each stride.

Noticing that the snow was rapidly accumulating, he whistled softly to the dog and pointed to the packhorse. The dog, ears pricked at the sound, waited until the horse was level with her, then sprang up into the nest created for her in the center of the packsaddle. It was a move the packhorse was familiar with now and she took it with no sign of alarm or resentment.

He rode on. The snow was heavy but it was nowhere near whiteout conditions and he was confident that he could find his way easily enough. The surface of the road might be covered, but the way was still clearly visible, cut between the trees as it was.

From time to time, there was a slithering rush as built-up snow on a branch finally became too heavy and slid off onto the ground below. Once, there was a splitting crack as a tree gave way, weakened by the intense cold and the weight of the snow until it sagged drunkenly against its neighbors. A black-and-white head rose above the packsaddle at the noise, ears pricked, nose quivering.

"Easy," Will said, grinning. His voice seemed strangely loud in his ears. She gave a small snuffle, sank her head back onto her paws, eyes closing. Then they opened again as she shook her head in that ear-rattling way dogs have, clearing the fallen snow from her fur. Content, she settled again.

Will's face was chilled but the rest of him was relatively warm. There was no wind to cut through his protective clothing and the subzero temperature meant that the snow stayed dry as it gathered on his shoulders and cowl—not melting and soaking the material of his cloak. From time to time he would dust it off, smiling as he reminded himself of the dog shaking her coat clear.

Two hours later, he crossed a ridge and there, before him, stood Castle Macindaw. It was a thickset, ugly building. The dark stone of its walls seemed black against the pure white snowscape that surrounded it. As was the custom, it was built on a small hill and the forest trees had been cut back on all four sides, preventing attackers from approaching unseen. It might be ugly, he thought, but it looked effective enough in design. The walls were solid, made of stone and at least five meters high. Towers at each of the four corners added another few meters to the overall height, and there was the usual dominant keep tower in the center, soaring above the others. The southern side held the main gate, with a drawbridge over a dry moat The moat, he noticed, didn't continue too far around the side walls. He assumed it was only there to make access to the main entrance more difficult.

Halt and Crowley had told him that the normal garrison consisted of thirty men-at-arms and half a dozen mounted knights. That would be more than enough to hold the walls against any Scotti raiding party, he thought.

He pushed back his hood and produced the narrow-brimmed hat that Berrigan had given him. Adorned with a green-dyed swan's feather, it marked him as a jongleur and should guarantee easy entry to the castle yard. He pulled the hat down tight and rode toward the gate.

Tug's hooves rang on the heavy planking of the draw-bridge as Will rode under the portcullis. The hollow sound changed to a sharp clatter as the horses stepped onto the cobbled courtyard. The area was filled with people moving from one place to another, going about their normal day-to-day tasks. Only a few of them looked up at him, looking away almost immediately.

Something was missing, he thought. Then he realized: there was none of the usual buzz of conversation, no sudden bursts of laughter or raised voices as people greeted companions, sharing a joke or a story. The people of Norgate were quiet, moving with their eyes cast down, seemingly disinterested in what was going on around them. It was an unfamiliar experience for him. As a Ranger, he was accustomed to drawing attention—albeit guarded—whenever he arrived in a new place. And in the past weeks as a jongleur, he had experienced the same surge of interest—although for a different reason.

In a remote, isolated place like Macindaw, he had fully expected to be greeted eagerly, if not warmly. He looked about curiously but could find nobody willing to meet or hold his gaze.

It was fear, he realized. People in Norgate were living close to a dangerous border. Their lord had been struck down by a mysterious ailment and there was a distinct belief among them that it was the work of a sorcerer. Small wonder that they would not show interest in or greet a stranger arriving in their midst. He hesitated, uncertain whether or not he should dismount. Then the question was answered for him as a rotund man, with a seneschal's chain and keys and a look of perpetual worry, emerged from the keep. The seneschal—basically the person who managed the day-to-day domestic affairs of the castle for its lord—saw him and moved toward him.

"Jongleur, are you?" he asked. It was an abrupt enough greeting Will thought. But at least it was a greeting. He smiled.

"That's right, Seneschal. Will Barton, from places south, bringing my small measure of pleasure to the castles of the north." It was the sort of florid speech that he had been taught to deliver. The seneschal nodded distractedly. Will guessed that he had a lot to distract him.

"We can use some. There's been precious little to smile about here, I can tell you."

"Really?" Will asked. The seneschal glanced up at him appraisingly.

"You've heard nothing of events here?" he asked. Will realized it would be foolish to try to pretend complete ignorance of events. An entertainer traveling through the country would have heard the local gossip—as indeed he had. He shrugged.

"Rumors, of course. The countryside is always alive with them wherever you go. But I'm used to discounting rumors."

The rotund man sighed heavily. "In this case, you can probably believe most of them," he said. "And add to them as well. You could hardly exaggerate the situation here."

"Then the lord of the castle is truly ..." Will hesitated as the other man looked up warningly.

"If you've heard the rumors, you know the situation," he said quickly. "It's a subject that's best not discussed too much."

"Of course," Will replied. He shifted in his saddle. He was tired and he felt that, troubled or not, it was time the seneschal showed him a little of the normal courtesy. The other man saw the movement and gestured for Will to dismount.

"I'm sorry. You'll understand that I'm a little distracted. You can put your horses in the stable. I take it the dog is with you?"

The border shepherd had been lying on the cobbles watching the conversation. Will nodded, smiling, as he swung down from the saddle, stretching his legs and back muscles.

"She assists me in my act," he said.

The seneschal nodded. "Keep her with you then. You're lucky, we're not too crowded at the moment, not that that's a surprise. So you can have a room to yourself."

That was an agreeable development. Will had been expecting to be assigned one of the curtained-off sleeping stalls that lined the annex to most castle great halls. Particularly in winter, when you would normally expect a castle to be crowded.