“Captain Tyrene.”
The captain of the Guard saluted, bringing his right palm to his chest. “My lord, I have come to report that the south inner ward will soon be in enemy hands unless we attack with special forces now.” Tyrene turned to regard the simulacrum. “If my lord will forgive me. You likely knew this before I did, but I felt I had to report it to you in person.” Turning his dirt-streaked face to Incarnadine he added, “The situation is grave, my lord.”
Incarnadine nodded and leaned forward, gripping the iron rail with both hands. Light from the simulacrum sculpted his bearded face. In his dark red cloak and saffron-yellow undertunic, he stood a head taller than the Guardsman. His face was extraordinarily handsome and perennially young. The dark eyes were intelligent, thick-browed and serene. His hair was dark brown, coming down to a bit below the ear in slight waves. Around his neck he wore a simple gold medallion on a gold chain; he wore no other jewelry. The medallion bore the image of a strange winged animal with the head of a demon.
“Soon, my friend,” Incarnadine said. “When the belfries are completely manned and ready to be drawn up to the walls.”
“Then I will return to my men.” Tyrene made a motion to leave.
“No, stay awhile. I shall have orders to give you.”
“Very well, my lord.” Tyrene took off his metal-studded black leather helmet, brushed dust off his chain mail doublet, and leaned against the rail. He took a deep breath and sighed.
“Weary, are you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You have fought bravely and well against overwhelming odds.”
“Thank you, my lord. Though I fear …” Tyrene’s gaze fell to his feet and he sighed again. He shook his head, his expression pained and vexed. “It makes no sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Vorn going to all this trouble. What are his motives?” Tyrene’s eyes rose to the simulacrum as Incarnadine changed the perspective again, this time to a wider view of the outer ward. “It’s insanity. What’s more, it’s bad war making. Vorn could have chosen to besiege a lesser fortress, thereby establishing his presence in the Western lands. He could have collected his quitrents and gone his way to finish the campaign in the South. He must know we have no offensive might to bring to bear against him. Instead, he allies himself with weaklings, the very ones he could have squashed, and pours his life’s blood into sands of our impoverished Pale trying to take Castle Perilous.” Tyrene pounded the rail with a mailed fist. “It makes no sense!”
“He may succeed.”
Tyrene’s face fell. “Yes, my lord. And I accept full responsibility.”
“No.”
“At risk of contradicting you, my lord, I —”
“No,” Incarnadine said again, softly but firmly. “You will not berate yourself. You have done your very best and have inflicted grievous losses on the enemy. You have made him pay in blood.”
Tyrene protested with a quick shake of the head. “Were it not for special forces —”
“Tyrene.” Incarnadine’s smile was benevolently admonishing.
The captain’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, my lord. I will say no more.” He shuffled his feet and muttered, “Still, it makes no sense.”
“Don’t you think the castle a worthy prize for a conqueror?”
“Why … I suppose. But what good can it do Vorn? Surely the last thing he needs is another fortress.”
“Perhaps he means to steal our magic.”
Tyrene knitted his brow, nodding. “Yes, maybe that’s what drives him. But even he should know that only a Haplodite can tap the castle’s deepest source of power.”
“It may be he does not know. Or has been deliberately misled.”
“Aye, it could be. If so, it’sher doing.”
Incarnadine did not answer. He shifted his weight and placed his left foot on the lower crossbar of the rail. “Then, of course, there is always the attraction of booty.”
Tyrene laughed. “I have lived all my life in and about Castle Perilous and have yet to catch even a whiff of where the treasure room might be.”
“Again, he may not be aware of the peculiarities of this place.” Incarnadine mused for a moment, then said, “I think I would have trouble finding it myself. Haven’t been there in years. As I remember, it lies within one of the more stable areas, but its position may have drifted somewhat over time.”
With a sweep of his hand, Incarnadine changed the scene below to full perspective.
The line of gigantic belfries was moving slowly toward the curtain wall. The infantry marched in files behind, ready to mount the stairs inside the towers. When the belfries drew close enough to the wall, the invaders would pour out through the top, crossing to the wall walk by means of drawbridges let down from the tops of the towers.
“Then again,” Incarnadine said, “it may be Vorn has taken a fancy to our Pale and wants a summer residence.”
Tyrene regarded him gravely for a moment, then broke into sudden laughter. “A fine jest, my lord.” His mirth was disproportionate, being, as it was, an overdue release from the tensions of battle.
Incarnadine waited until Tyrene had wiped the tears from his eyes, then took his foot from the rail and straightened.
The infantry were marching in double-time, and had begun mounting the stairways inside the belfries.
“The time has come,” Incarnadine said.
“The sky dragons again, my lord?”
“I think not — this time.”
Incarnadine stood back from the rail and raised both arms. He closed his eyes and stood unmoving for a moment. Then, quickly and with great precision, he commenced tracing patterns in the air. Touching the tips of his index fingers together above his head, he parted them and brought them around and down in two semicircles to meet again at the bottom, thereby completing the Great Circle. He stepped back to examine his work, as if the figure were visible. Stepping forward again, he outlined a series of arcs linking points of the circumference, connecting the midpoints of these with lines to form a square within the circle.
He executed more lines, more figures within figures, his brow knitted, tiny beads of sweat springing to it like a sudden dew.
Watching, Tyrene stepped back warily.
Presently, Incarnadine’s spell figure, composed of faintly glowing red filaments, began to take form in the air.
Keep — Elsewhere
“We’re lost again,” Snowclaw said.
“Tell me something new.”
Gene scratched his head and looked around. They had followed a spiral stairwell down to this, a spacious airy room with numerous window alcoves. An Oriental rug covered the flagstone at the far end of the room, and on it were positioned various pieces of furniture — a divan, a few straight-back chairs, two low tables. A sideboard set against the wall held several wrought-iron candelabras bearing the stubs of burned tapers. The alcoves were set at even intervals along the right wall; a single flush window was cut into the far wall, and to the left, an arched doorway led through to the descending spiral of another stairwell.
Gene said, “Linda, do you remember Dalton saying to go right at that first landing? Or was it left?”
Linda stepped past him, following Snowclaw toward the windows.
“I’m sure he said right. And we went right. That’s all I’m sure of, though.”
“Damn. Well, maybe we just keep following the stairs. But it seems to me we should have come to that grand ballroom by now.”
Yawning, Gene walked to the far end of the room and flopped down on the divan. He yawned again and keeled over on his side.
“Tired,” he said quietly, closing his eyes.
Snowclaw said, “Hey, Gene. Come look at this.”
Gene’s eyes popped open. “What?” He cranked himself up and shuffled over to the alcove into which Snowclaw and Linda had squeezed themselves. They were leaning out of the narrow Gothic window and looking up, Linda bending and ducking her head under Snowclaw’s outstretched arm. Gene craned his neck, couldn’t see a thing, so he stepped back and went into the next alcove. He looked out.