But when he heard the voice, the mood was broken.
The time of my freedom is imminent.
“No doubt,” he answered aloud.
Unfettered, corporeal once again, I shall soar … I shall destroy.…
“As one of my Guests is fond of saying, ‘Whatever turns you on.’”
I crave the fastnesses of the air above the earth … the cold sky … the icy winds … I have been too long in bondage.…
“We all have our sundry problems.”
Sighing, he arose and walked out of the room. Passing through an archway, he entered another of the chambers, this one sparsely furnished: a single table with an ensconced candle on it, and a low wooden bench. The window opened onto a vast level plain populated with huge monoliths in various geometric shapes. He seated himself on the bench and endeavored to recapture a meditative state of mind.
To no avail.
Already the Spell Stone sings to those who seek it, drawing them near.…
He let a few moments of silence go by before he said, “Indeed.”
He got up and approached the window, stepping out through it, and stood in the sand. A mild wind blew in from his right, carrying fine grains of sand to tickle his cheek. He felt the desire to walk out among the monuments, touch them, sit within their shadows. He stepped farther out.
Where are you going?
The voice diminished as he withdrew from the suspended rectangle of the window.
You will return.
The sound of the wind through the monoliths was drear, but somehow comforting. The sky was violet. A triangle of three bright stars shone just above the horizon to his left. All was simplicity, clarity, peace.
I remember …
He was farther from the window now. The voice was partly lost in the moving air.
“What did you say? You remember? What?”
Your father’s father … or was it your father’s father’s father … he who spoke my name … he who enchained me.
“What of him?”
How long ago? That I do not remember.
“Do you remember what you are?”
No, not completely. I do not entirely know my nature. Much has been lost.
He halted. The voice was a whisper now.
“Why do you speak now? You have not done so in a hundred years.”
That long? I did not know. Was it you to whom I spoke?
“Does it matter?”
No. It is sometimes difficult for me to ascertain individuality … and I do not care in any event.
“You spoke to me. I ask again — why have you broken your silence?”
I speak now because I sense an impending liberation.
A spark of light above caught his eye, and he looked to the zenith. A falling star scratched a trail across the heavens. It glowed with a phosphorescent green light.
“Ah.”
What is it?
When the star had descended, he looked down, his face troubled.
“Nothing.” Presently, he said, “A moment ago you spoke of soaring, of destroying. Is that your nature?”
I feel it must be.
“You also spoke of the Spell Stone. What is it?”
That which both holds me in bondage and denies me knowledge of my nature.
“But what is it? Where is it?”
I do not know.
“I see.” The song of the wind rose up again, and he turned toward it. He felt drawn to the open spaces before him. But the shackles of obligation held him back. He chafed at them.
He shook his head, turning to the window. On the other side of the sky a blue-white sun was setting. Here, the freedom of nothingness was comforting. But he knew he could not stay. He had many tasks before him.
“Tell me this,” he said. “Do you remember your name?”
No.
“That is good.”
After taking one last look at what lay about him, he strode toward the window and stepped inside it.
Southern Barbican — Near The Keepgate House
Two lords and a lady sat inside a tent at a table made of rude planking. A draft from the breach in the outer wall, very near, ruffled the cloth walls of the tent.
At one end of the table stood an imposing mountain of a man, wearing battle dress executed in the style of the Eastern Empire, and the finery of it spoke of the highest rank. He wore a burnished helmet of bronze, set with blue stones and decorated with bars of white enamel. His long-sleeved tunic was of vermilion wool, bordered at hem and cuffs with gold embroidery. The massive breastplate shone like a golden sun, and a blue cape flowed over his shoulders and down his back like a cataract.
The other men were dressed for battle as well, though in more utilitarian style: suits of mail under long sleeveless tunics, on which were emblazoned their respective coats-of-arms. The lady occupied one side of the table by herself. She wore a long cloak dyed a bright orange. Behind her stood a man in a long hooded gown.
From outside came the gruff voices of soldiers, the rattle of wagons, the whickering of destriers.
“You say we have begun undermining the inner palisade?”
Prince Vorn turned to Lord Althair, who sat nearest him.
“Last night, though work progresses slowly, by hand. We must use the bore sparingly, since its noise could give us away. Moreover, the spell that runs the engine does not work well below the earth. Bores are meant for walls above ground.”
“Even in its proper element,” Lord Dax, seated to Althair’s right, remarked, “your bore did not excel. Three months to breach the outer wall.”
Vorn turned a withering dark eye on him. “Three months to bite through stone that is more like metal than metal itself.”
Dax lifted a silver flagon of wine to his lips, pausing to mutter, “True,” before drinking.
Lord Althair, a thin-faced man with light brown eyes, scratched his long nose with a finger. “We started last night? I suspect they have already begun to countermine. Incarnadine has anticipated our every move. We have taken inordinate casualties.”
“Most of which have been from among my best regiments,” Vorn said.
“Your regiments make up the bulk of our combined forces, so it’s hardly surprising. That is why we three have formed an alliance with you. Without aid, we could never have begun to take Castle Perilous.”
“Then why complain?”
“I do not complain. I state facts.”
“You would do well not to state the obvious.”
Althair’s lips drew up into a pout.
“To business, then,” Vorn said, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “The Spell Stone. I should like to hear again what its function is and how we may go about locating it.”
Lady Melydia of the House of Gan, a woman of delicate features and bold blue eyes that glowed with a curiously discordant intensity, inclined her head toward the man standing to her left. “Osmirik will tell you.”
Osmirik reached up and drew back his hood. His hair was long and black, matching his beard. “If it please His Royal Highness …”
“It would please me if you were brief this time.”
“I shall endeavor to obey His Royal Highness.”
Vorn snorted and leaned back.
“The Spell Stone may be likened to the keystone of an arch,” Osmirik said, “without which the arch would collapse. It is the core of the castle’s strength. Find the Stone, abrogate its spell, and the castle shall undergo detransmogrification.”
“Bandy no scholar’s jargon with me. Are you speaking of magical transformation here?”