But suppose what was happening now was—as Prestimion had proposed at the time of Dinitak’s startling defection to his side in Stoien city—simply part of some intricately treacherous scheme of Dantirya Sambail’s? What if the boy, wearing the helmet that he claimed to have brought here for the sake of putting it at the Coronal’s service, were to join forces across these thousands of miles with his father in Stoienzar, who was wearing one of the others? Together they would create an invulnerable force.
It was a rash gamble, Dekkeret thought. They were staking everything on a ragged youngster in whose veins ran the blood of a man for whom betrayal and deceit were as natural as breathing. Could they risk it?
And yet—even so—
“What do you say, Dekkeret?” the Coronal asked. “Shall we accept the boy’s offer?”
Dekkeret looked past Prestimion toward the aloof and enigmatic figure of Maundigand-Klimd, who had remained on the periphery of the discussion throughout.
Help me, he begged the Su-Suheris, speaking only with his eyes. I am beyond my depth here. Help me. Help me.
Did Maundigand-Klimd understand?
Yes. Yes. The four green eyes of the magus were looking directly into his own. From the left head came the slightest of nods. Then a second one, from the right. And then again, unmistakably, both heads nodding at once.
I thank you, Maundigand-Klimd. With all my heart.
In a bold voice Dekkeret said, “I told you when he first came here that we should trust him, my lord. I still believe that we should.”
“So be it, then,” Prestimion said immediately. Plainly he had already made the same choice. He glanced toward young Barjazid. “We’ll meet again later today,” he told the boy, “to discuss how to go about making our counterstrike.” Then, to the Princess Therissa: “Mother, you are excused from attending. I won’t ask you to take part in this task, since you find it so disagreeable, though I still have other work for you.” And finally, speaking this time to Dekkeret and Dinitak and Maundigand-Klimd together: “You may go, now, all of you. I want to have a few minutes alone with my mother.”
From a cabinet below the window Prestimion took a flask of the wine of Muldemar, a rare vintage that he had brought with him to Stoien from the Castle, and poured it liberally for them. They saluted each other solemnly.
“I ask your pardon, mother,” he said, when they had had a few sips and put their bowls down. “It pained me very much to put you into such a difficult position in front of the others.”
“I took no offense. You are the Coronal Lord, Prestimion: you are responsible for the welfare of the world. These men threaten us all, and you need to take action against them. I’m willing to do all that I can to help you in that. But you asked something of me that I’m not capable of giving.”
“For which I’m sorry. I should have seen that before I spoke. For you to employ your training and powers in order to commit an act of aggression—”
“You understand it now,” she said, and smiled, and reached across to take his hand. She kissed it lightly, the merest brush of her lips against his skin. “But the attempt must be made, with or without me. Will the boy succeed in besting his father, I wonder? Just from my own brief contact with his mind, I can see how formidable he is. And how evil.”
“If at the very least Dinitak can hamper his father somewhat, that will help. An unexpected jab that weakens his guard—a distraction—a diversion—” Prestimion shrugged. “Well, we’ll see soon enough.” He picked up the Lady’s silver circlet, lying where she had left it on the table. The tingling sensation that heralded its power immediately manifested itself to him. “You need to give me further training in this,” he said. “And I’ll want to learn how to use the Barjazid helmet also. If I’m required to sit here far behind the battle lines, as everyone seems to insist, I want to be able to take whatever part in the struggle I possibly can, even at this distance.”
“I can help you with that.”
“Will you? The Barjazid device too?”
“Mastering it won’t be easy for you. To use it is to ride the lightning. But yes, Prestimion—yes—I’ll give you all the assistance I can. Which means I must learn to master the thing myself, I suppose. What wine is this? It’s splendid stuff.”
He laughed. “You don’t recognize it? It comes from our own cellars, mother!”
She drank again, savoring the wine more closely this time, and asked him to fill her bowl once more.
“Gladly,” he said. And then, after a little while: “Take up your circlet once again, if you will, mother. Cast your mind far afield for me. There are things I need to know. Tell me how my army fares in the Stoienzar jungles, and find Varaile for me as she travels eastward, and my poor suffering Akbalik.”
“Yes. Of course.” She donned the slender silver band and closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again Prestimion saw that she had slipped into the trance-state through which the wearer of the circlet was able to rove freely through the world. She seemed unaware of his presence entirely. He scarcely dared breathe. She was gone a long time; and then that far look, that look of absence, went from her eyes and she was herself again.
But she was silent. “Well?” Prestimion said, when he could wait no longer. “What did you see, mother?”
“It was Septach Melayn I encountered first. What a dear man he is, ever charming, ever elegant and graceful! And so deeply devoted to you.”
“How does he fare, then?”
“I found him restless and troubled. He moves on and on through the jungle. But the enemy is nowhere to be found. His scouts come back again and again with reports of the Procurator’s camp, but when the full army goes to the place, there is no one there. And apparently never was.”
“The cloud of unknowingness,” Prestimion said. “With young Barjazid’s aid we’ll help him overcome that.—And Varaile, and Akbalik?”
“They are far from here by now, are they not, well beyond the midpoint of the continent?”
“I certainly hope so. But crossing such a distance is no great task for you, is it?”
“No,” she said, and returned to her trance. This time, when she emerged from it, her jaw was tightly set and her eyes looked alarmingly grim. Again she was maddeningly slow to speak. Evidently it took her some time to collect herself after these voyages.
“Is something the matter?” he burst out finally. “With Varaile? The baby?”
“No,” she said. “All is well with your wife and the child she carries.—Your friend Akbalik, though—”
“His condition’s grown worse, has it?”
She paused just a moment. “His suffering is over, Prestimion .”
The quiet words hit with savage impact. For an instant Prestimion was almost stunned by them. Then, gradually recovering, he said quietly, “I sent him to his death when I let him go into that jungle. Not the first good man whose life was shortened on my account. Not the last, I fear.—I thought he might be Coronal after me, mother. That was how much regard I had for him.”
“I know you loved him. I regret bringing you such tidings.”
“I asked for them, mother.”
She nodded. “There is more trouble, I think, in another quarter. I had only the barest suggestion of it as I cast my mind outward. Let me look again.”
A third time she entered trance. Prestimion drained his wine-bowl and waited. This time when she came forth he threw no impatient questions at her.