“Do you think I could defeat him?” the Rose lord asked.
“You’re an accomplished swordsman, certainly.” It was the Kingfisher who spoke for the group. “Given matching weapons, a fair fight, you would have a very good chance.”
“But only a chance!” the Clerist protested.
Frankish stretched to his full height-he was a big man, broad shouldered and formidable-and addressed the lord regent. “I am not afraid of the marshal,” he said. “If it is your wish, my lord, that I issue this challenge-”
“I can’t afford to lose you!” snapped du Chagne.
“No, indeed, we-none of us-could afford to lose our esteemed General Frankish.” The Kingfisher spoke soothingly. His eyes narrowed as he scratched his chin, staring at Lord Frost. “My dear Clerist-would it be possible for you to research this matter in the temple archives? The last duel under the knighthood’s rule was many decades ago, but it would be useful to learn the nuances. You could clarify the rules and the risks.”
“Certainly, if it is my lord’s wish.”
“Please,” du Chagne said. “I would consider it a personal favor if you would investigate this matter at once.”
“Of course, my lord. It is my pleasure to serve.” The priest rose from his chair, bowed, and left the room. The lord regent spoke again as soon as the door closed behind him.
“Think, now! A duel is too dangerous. We need a better plan, something more assured of success.”
“Begging the lord regent’s pardon,” the Kingfisher said quietly. “I had not finished outlining my plan. But I don’t think we need bother the lord Clerist with the details.”
“Hmm, I see.” Du Chagne was intrigued. “Go on.”
“I think our Rose Lord Frankish could be furnished with the means to win this duel in a way that will remain undetected. As you know, part of the dueling ritual requires that opponents be armed with identical weapons, and that an impartial judge and at least two wizards are present to ensure that neither party makes use of any magical device.”
“Yes, I know all that,” the regent said impatiently.
The Kingfisher refused to be hurried. “I suggest that I cast upon our lord here a spell of haste, before the fight. If he is reasonably subtle in its employment, such that he limits himself to slight improvements in his normal reflexes, attack speeds, parries, and so forth, no one ought to notice the enchantment. But it will provide him with enough of an advantage that he could block every blow directed at him and-eventually, after putting on a convincing show for the judge-enable him to make the killing thrust. I didn’t feel the Clerist would care for my little subterfuge and thought it best to send him on a little errand while we discussed things.”
“Hmm, but what about the other wizard? The White Witch will surely be alert for any treachery.”
“A spell is not like a magical device. There is no detection she will be able to conjure that will indicate Lord Frankish is the beneficiary of a haste spell. It will depend upon your discretion, of course,” the Kingfisher noted, turning his attention to the lord. “If you move about in a blur, she will suspect-so, as I said, subtlety will be the key.”
“Can you do that?” asked the lord regent.
“Yes, of course!” replied Frankish. He stood and paced around the room, punching his fist into the palm of his hand. He whirled, shuffled his feet, almost as if he were mentally choreographing his movements in the duel. “I shall challenge him at the first opportunity.”
“Who will be the judge?” asked du Chagne.
“I do believe our colleague, the Clerist lord inquisitor, would serve well in that role,” declared Moorvan slyly.
The three men were silent for a long time, each lost in thought.
“The White Witch remains a danger to us,” said the lord regent, breaking the silence. “She will undoubtedly attend and be on the lookout for mischief.”
“I will seek her out after the challenge and suggest we attend together,” Sir Moorvan replied. “I can make sure that she finds no opportunity to cast spells of her own. She will neither detect the haste spell, nor influence the fight by magic. And by my invitation to attend, she will perhaps have her suspicions lulled.”
“Very well,” declared the regent firmly. “The matter is decided. Now, how do we initiate the plan?”
“There, too,” said the Kingfisher with a thin smile, “I have an idea…”
“From the look on your face, I will judge that your mission was unsuccessful,” Coryn said curtly. She had been seated behind her desk when the lord marshal returned to her laboratory, and after a curious look at Jaymes, she returned her attention to the thick tome she had been reading.
He merely shrugged and crossed the office to the cabinet where she kept several bottles of wine as well as a corked bottle of fine brandy. After a cursory inspection of the wines, he poured himself a generous draught of the dark liquor. Taking a sip, he turned to regard Coryn and saw that she had set her book aside and was looking at him speculatively.
“The wizard confounded me,” he admitted at last. “I never even noticed him casting his spell. But I departed without seeing the princess-without even remembering why I was there, in fact!”
“Sir Moorvan is capable of skullduggery, no doubt. But this is not too surprising. Will you return to your army now?” Coryn asked without a great deal of hope.
Jaymes glared at her. “No. This was a temporary diversion. I will go back there tomorrow, and if the magic-user tries to bewitch me again, I will run him through.”
“That would be taking matters to the extreme,” said the white wizard disapprovingly. She stood and closed her book, returning it to the shelf. “Right now,” she said with a sigh of resignation, “we need to get some rest. You can use the same room you slept in last night.”
“We?” Jaymes asked warily.
She nodded. “Tomorrow, when you go to call on the lord regent and his daughter, I’m going with you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘We must get off this cliff-down there into dark,” insisted Laka, gesturing with her death’s-head totem. She glared at Ankhar and Hoarst when neither of her companions made any move to fling themselves into the apparently bottomless space.
The chasm was vast and eerie, utterly lightless yet somehow strangely alive. Every whisper they made, every scuff of feet or clink of a buckle, was amplified by the gulf of darkness. Ankhar felt the hair at the nape of his neck prickle, and could not suppress a growl. The half-giant clenched his great spear in both fists, brandishing the emerald head.
“Do you know what’s down there?” asked the Thorn Knight skeptically. “Or even how far it is to the bottom?”
“It doesn’t matter,” the shaman replied. “This is the way we must go. It is one reason you needed to come.”
“There is another reason as well, I presume?” the wizard wondered.
“Yes, but that is for later. First, you must get us down to the bottom of this great space.”
The Thorn Knight looked as though he were inclined to argue, but after a moment he nodded curtly. “I can do this,” Hoarst replied, addressing Ankhar. “But it will take courage. I must cast a spell upon you, my lord. You will need to trust in the magic, and to step off the edge of this precipice. The spell will guarantee that you float gently, like a feather, down to the bottom.”
“And my mother?” asked Ankhar.
The wizard shrugged, and there was just a glint of cruel merriment in his eye as he explained. “I have but the one spell. You will have to hold her in your arms and carry her with you.”
“I do this,” agreed the half-giant, though his heart was in his throat and his chest was constricting with terror at the thought of himself and his precious shaman plunging through the black void. “You, too, will come down to the bottom?”