Ironcrown Moon (32 page)

“This book shows fewer stones,” Felmar noted as he turned crumbling pages, “but the illustrations are larger and more elaborate than those in the other one, and the descriptions are much longer. I suspect that my book describes the more important sigils. Let’s see how many of those we can find in the collection.”

To their vast disappointment, only four of the carvings matched the criterion: a moonstone finger-ring; an oblong sigil that looked just like a tiny door, complete with simulated latch; a thing about the size of a man’s little finger that was shaped like a carrot or an icicle; and a short rod or wand with a drilled perforation at one end, incised with the phases of the moon.

“Well,” Felmar said with an ironic smile, “at least there are two for you and two for me. Shall we draw straws for first pick?”

Scarth gave him a startled look. “Are you suggesting that we somehow keep back these—these important sigils for ourselves?”

Felmar set the stones aside, put more wood on the fire, and sighed. “I’m only joking.”

He unsheathed his knife, picked up a stick, and began to trim off splinters. “Here’s something we have to consider, Brother. Lord Kilian promised to bespeak us when he was well into the mountains and there was only a small chance of the thread of his windspeech being traced back to him. Very soon— perhaps tomorrow or the next day—we’re bound to hear his call. If his talent has sufficiently recovered from the strictures of the iron gammadion, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to scry us as well.”

“We won’t answer him! And if we keep the cover spell in place, he won’t be able to find us.”

Felmar gave an exasperated grunt. “Kilian devised the spell of couverture we’re using. You can be sure he knows how to puncture it—or even turn it off completely. We can only hope that his powers remain weak for a while longer, giving us a chance to put more distance between us. The mountains will help block his windsight if he does obliterate the cover spell.”

“But eventually, he’ll be able to find us, Pel! And if he thinks we’re running away from him with the trove, he’ll come after us and kill us.”

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“True. That’s why we can’t simply ignore his call on the wind. When it does come, we must answer him, so his suspicions aren’t immediately aroused. But what we ought to say… as yet, I don’t know.”

“What would he do ” Scarth said carefully, “if we didn’t take the trove with us when we fled?

What if we hid it in some safe place and told him where to find it?”

Felmar paused in his whittling. His eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Brother, you may have hit on the solution! He’d certainly be furious at us for abandoning the trove—but not to the point of chasing us down. He’s a fugitive, too, and his life depends upon getting over the border into Didion as fast as possible.”

“He’d know he could retrieve the things sooner or later,” Scarth said. “He could even scry them in their hiding place and know we were telling the truth.”

“Yes. Good point! If we spin a plausible yarn, I think Kilian would be satisfied to let us go our own way. When he bespeaks us, why don’t we say that we were unable to follow the path to Roaring Gorge. We only escaped a search party by the skin of our teeth. They’re hot on our heels and we don’t want the trove to fall into their hands. Our only chance now is to travel cross-country— north into the trackless mountains.”

“That’s no lie, either.” Scarth’s long face was somber. “The story sounds good to me. We could leave the trove right here—maybe hide it up in the roof of this hovel.”

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Felmar resheathed his knife. He had made four tiny wooden sticks of differing lengths. “Ready for the magical moonstone drawing?”

Scarth frowned. “I thought you were just fooling.”

“Come on! Just for the fun of it.” Felmar put his hands behind his back, fumbled, then held out a fist with the stick ends peeping out.

“Take any two. Longest chooses his important sigil first, then we take turns, on down to the shortest. Each man says what his sigils are capable of. Then we decide who’s the greater sorcerer.”

“Oh, hell. Why not?”

Scarth won the first and third choices. He picked the ring and the icicle. Felmar got the miniature doorway and the wand.

“A pity we can’t take these with us,” Scarth mused. “I suspect this ring might be a Weathermaker, like the one Conjure-Queen Ullanoth owns. And maybe the moonstone icicle can freeze a person in his tracks! Can you better that?”

Felmar rubbed his fingers over his own treasures. “This thing of mine looks like a door. It must a door! Conjure it and it opens into a be better world—one full of sunlight and good food and friendly, carefree folk who don’t have to work for a living.”

“Take me with you when you step through,” Scarth said wistfully, “and I’ll concede you the sorcery contest hands down… What do you think that other thing of yours does?”

But Felmar was tiring of the game. “Who cares? Probably nothing that would be of any help to us. We’d better turn in so we can make an early start tomorrow. Help me get these regular sigils back into their sacks. Let’s wrap the four important ones in the linen hood from my goodwife disguise before we tuck them in with the others.”

“You’re still thinking about keeping them when we run?”

Felmar shrugged. “Only thinking. We could probably sell them for a pretty penny to a magicker up in Didion—or better yet, in Moss.

Would Kilian even know they were missing when he scried the two bags of sigils? Seems to me it’d be nigh impossible to count the things, all bunched together like that. And he might not be able to fetch them for years.”

They discussed this interesting topic at some length, passing the brandy flask back and forth, speculating on what the four stones might be worth. Why, they might even offer them to the Conjure-Queen herself! She’d know their true value.

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“She c’d perteck us from Kilian’s revenge, too.” Scarth gave a tipsy giggle. “Maybe help us join the Glaum’rie Guild! I w-wouldn‘ mind takin’ a job at the Mossback court.”

“Better’n holin‘ up in the Diddly morass f’rest of our lives.”

Neither of the Brothers had tasted hard liquor since entering the Order, where it was forbidden because of its deleterious effect on talent.

But when Bo Hern’s wife offered plum brandy in addition to the other provisions, they’d hesitated only a moment. Hard times lay ahead of them. Ardent spirits were medicinal. They banished aches and pains and helped a man sleep when his mind was plagued by fear and worry.

Scarth and Felmar hadn’t planned to empty the flask that first night, but somehow it happened anyway. With all their troubles forgotten, they settled into inebriated slumber.

==========

At first, Felmar’s dream was much as it had been before. He was a young boy again, no more than ten or eleven years old, sitting under a flowering apple tree in the garden of the family manor house. His kindly grandsire was there beside him, warning him to beware of great danger
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from the wicked Kilian Blackhorse.

Now Felmar was able to tell Grandad about the newly hatched plan to outwit the alchymist. He described it eagerly, in much detail. But the old man shook his head in disagreement.

No, my lad. There’s a much easier way to get the better of Kilian. One of those moonstones you stole can provide a foolproof means of escape for both you and Scarth. I can show you how.

You very nearly guessed the secret when you were playing your game.

“What do you mean?”

The sigil resembling a tiny carved door is called Subtle Gateway. It won’t take you to paradise, but it can transport you and your friend anywhere in the world in the blink of an eye.

“But the stone is inactive, Grandad! I can’t read the conjuring instructions.”

That’s not necessary, Felmar. There’s a simpler method of bringing sigils to life. Of course, only a very brave man can make use of it!

But you’re no coward. I’m confident you can do it. Darasilo, the silly fool who first found the stones, never knew anything about this.

Neither did his successors including Kilian Blackhorse. All one need do to activate the sigil is hold it firmly, then touch it to one of the

—

moonstone medallions affixed to the book covers

.

“That’s… all?”

If this is done, the supernatural Guardian of the Moonstones will pronounce a strange phrase three times. A great sense of fear will come over you. There’ll be a good deal of pain, too. But if you keep up your courage until the phrase is said for the fourth time, the sigil will come to magical life, glowing with a green inner light. Hang it about your neck. Then all you need do is take hold of your friend’s hand

—

or anything else you want to transport along with you and speak your destination in a loud voice.

Instantly, you’ll be there

—

!

“It seems too wonderful to be true.”

Try it! What have you got to lose?

“What about the other stones in the trove? Can they all be activated in the same way?”

Of course.

“I could… take all of them for myself?”

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If you wanted to.

“Thank you for telling me, Grandad.”

==========

Felmar forced his eyes open and struggled into a sitting position with his back against the saddle. His head spun from the brandy he’d consumed, even though Scarth had taken the lion’s share. The dim interior of the croft seemed to ripple like a disturbed reflection in water. He smelled acrid woodsmoke and wet leather, heard the other man’s slow snores and the rustle of gentle rain. The fire was still burning wanly.

The dream.

Could it be true?

He pushed aside the blanket covering him and crawled to where the bags of sigils and the books
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lay. Through bleared eyes he saw milky mineral disks in narrow gold frames fastened to each cover. Mere ornaments, surely.

Or were they?

Try it

, a remembered voice inside his head seemed to urge.

What do you have to lose

?

He emptied both bags of moonstones onto the canvas that covered the floor, pawing and scattering the sigils in a frenzy of impatience until he found the tight wad of cloth that held the four important ones. He shook it open, dumped the stones, and selected—what had Grandad called the thing?—Subtle Gateway! The magical door leading to safety and to power.

More power than he’d ever imagined.

Felmar grasped the little oblong carving and pressed it against a book disk, then gave a low cry of astonishment.

Both the sigil and the medallion began to shine with a gentle greenish light. He thought he saw a movement within the croft out of the corner of his eye, but before he could turn to look at it a deep voice that had nothing human about it spoke a question inside his head.

CADAY AN RUDAY?

Terror, deeper and more paralyzing than he’d ever known before, seized him like some ravening beast. There was pain as well, as though an ice-cold lance were being driven into his breast.

CADAY AN RUDAY?!

The awful voice was bespeaking him on the wind, more loudly this time and with angry impatience. The Guardian of the Moonstones, Grandad had said. The swelling pain was atrocious. His ribs were being torn apart and his heart crushed by frigid pincers. If he let go of the sigil, let it fall away from his flesh, the suffering would end. But then he would lose all chance of bringing the Gateway sigil to life—

CADAY AN R UDAY?!!!

He was deafened by the monstrous voice, blinded by hurt, shrieking voicelessly into the wind as the nerves of his body burned in icy flames. But he was brave. He would persevere, hold fast until the fourth time that the Guardian asked his question. He would remain courageous until the end.

The end came, engulfing him in an agony of silent Light.

==========

Beynor withdrew his bedazzled windsight, shaken to the core in spite of himself, and lay trembling in the bottom of the dinghy.

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He rested for a long time, then sent his sight soaring once again to the interior of the faraway hut. Felmar Nightcott was gone, his flesh, blood, and bone reduced to a heap of gritty cinders.

Although Beynor was unable to scry them, he presumed that the ancient books and the sigils were unharmed. From the conversation of the thieves, he had managed to identify three of the four Great Stones in the trove.

The fourth was still a tantalizing enigma.

Perhaps when he entered the dream of the second man, he could coerce him into describing it.

But Beynor discovered very quickly that Scarth Saltbeck lay in a drunken stupor so profound that his mind was inaccessible to any invader. The jug-bitten wretch was incapable of dreaming!

His natural talent was also totally incapacitated, and the protective spell of couverture had dissolved even before he and his companion had fallen asleep.

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Beynor gave up trying to penetrate Scarth’s sodden brain after numerous failed attempts. His own head ached abominably from the effort and he cursed his bad luck. There was no helping it: he’d have to wait until later, when the liquor’s poisonous effects had worn off a little.

Meanwhile, he’d keep wind-watch on the surviving thief as best he could, hoping no one else would scry out the unshielded lummox and come after him.

He relaxed on the pallet he’d made up in the bottom of the boat and stared up at the crimson night sky. With sail furled, oars stowed aboard, and no one at the tiller, the dinghy glided arrow-straight up the wide River Malle. Only a handful of people near the docks at Tallhedge noticed its uncanny passing, and they turned away from the sight in superstitious fear and told no one.