A pantry hatch promptly opened in the ceiling above. It let two things down into the darkness: a sack-seeking hook that was destined to find nothing because it was reaching down the wrong hatch, and a brief shaft of light.
That radiance happened to fall straight upon the warrior. He glanced up, but no one was looking down. The wielder of the fetch-hook had turned to listen to someone loudly and profanely informing him of his error.
Which was a good thing, because the familiar features of Tesmer had twisted on one side into quite a different face, with a longer nose, a sharper jaw, and lighter hair. The change was swift, and had already spread to the other side of the warrior's face when the closing hatch took the light with it again-and the changed man strolled deeper into Flowfoam's nigh-deserted cellars.
Perhaps, as King Castlecloaks had once remarked, the palace cellars were never quite deserted enough.
20
Dreams Bright and Dark
T he baron took another cautious step closer to the snoring woman, and the air flickered warningly again. Flickered, and then-another step-flared into a wall of raging flames. Phelinndar stepped back hastily from that crackling heat and studied the blistered edge of the hand he'd thrown up in front of his face.
The pain, as he flexed his fingers, told him the flames had been quite real. He stepped around a dusty, motionless Melted and tried to come at the seated sleeper from another direction. Again the flames came.
He stepped back and cried, "Oh, gods, Ambelter, they're here\ The King and all the Overdukes, come to slay us with Dwaerindim!"
His shout echoed around the cavern, but the fat, ragged woman the baron knew to be Ingryl Ambelter did not move. The snores became, if anything, a trifle louder.
Well, the wizard had certainly seemed exhausted by his spellweavings. That last spell he'd raised looked somewhat like the shieldings he customarily cast around himself when he wanted to sleep-though he'd never used a shielding that made him look like anyone else before.
Still, 'twas wise: someone spell-spying from afar would see some old woman, not the much-hated Spellmaster of Aglirta. Those flames would dissuade hungry beasts or lurking brigands-and no doubt the shielding would rouse Ingryl to full wakefulness if treacherous barons or anyone else hurled weapons at the slumbrous wizard, or spells, or tried to blast Ambelter with a Dwaer-Stone.
Phelinndar walked as far away from the sleeping mage as he could, the Dwaer cradled comfortably in his hand. Of course the Spellmaster dare not link his shieldings to this Stone; that would leave him defenseless against anyone using a Dwaer, such as-again-treacherous barons named Orlin Andamus Phelinndar.
Which in turn left Phelinndar free to use this Stone in his hand just as he liked. In truth, 'twas no wonder the Spellmaster was finally snoring in the hands of the gods. Most men would have fallen on their faces days earlier-but he'd not sleep forever, so…
Hunched into a corner that he was fairly sure-or at least hoped-held no stored magic items, the baron tried to ignore the stink of his ever more chafing armor, held the Dwaer up in front of his face, and tried to look into it.
The Stone grew warm almost immediately, and glowed, ever so slightly… and then white warmth was all around Phelinndar, and he was falling gently through it, through mists and drifts of cloud, toward some unseen place ahead where the light was brighter…
Brighter and more blue, a light that leaped with arcing, flowing energy, like lightning bolts sprayed from an invisible storm to stab all around him…
If only he knew how to use this lump of rock that wizards so lusted after, to hurl castle-shattering spells as they did!
A sword was a sword-oh, there were skills to learn to use it well, but any fool could pick one up and see which end was sharp and which end one gripped, and could swing and jab and slash empty air or some defenseless tree and in five breaths know how to use it to-clumsily, aye, but surely-slay!
But magic, now… magic was like swinging a snake instead of a sword, and wondering when it would turn and fang the hand that held it.
Baron Phelinndar was suddenly sweating so hard that drops were falling from the end of his nose. He snarled silently at those whirling lightnings. All he wanted was to speak with an old friend and arrange a place to run to, if he ever broke purpose with the Spellmaster snoring yonder-and somehow managed to live.
Hulgor was the man he needed. Good old Hulgor, who'd demand his price but be true to the bargain, once struck. They'd made many a coin together when Baron Orlin Andamus Phelinndar had been only Orlin Breselt, Tersept of Downdaggers. That first chance meeting in Sirl town had won him his only trustworthy trading partner-sharp when making deals, but true to every last coin and letter once they were sealed. That florid face was probably age-blotched by now, the sword-gray hair going white…
The Dwaer-mists grew suddenly darker, rolling to frame a gap or window of empty white light that grew larger, brighter, and then shot through with colors. Green, mosdy… yes, 'twas showing him someone clad in green: a man in a richly embroidered dark green doublet… a man now turning away, a golden flagon as large as a chamberpot in his hand.
Hulgor! Yes, 'twas Hulgor Delcamper to be sure-and by the looks of him, as large, florid, quick-tempered, brawling, and wine-loving as ever! Hulgor's hair was almost entirely white, and his skin was wrinkled, but there were no blotches or staggerings, nor anything about him that told the world "old" or "infirm" or "unsteady." His fierce brown eyes were still hawk-alert.
Hulgor strode through a doorway and was gone. Phelinndar furiously desired to keep Hulgor in sight, glaring down at the mists and blue lightnings and shifting windows of light. There was a brief whirling of Dwaer-mists, and then he was seeing Hulgor in another room, large and richly paneled and lit with many candles.
Those flames flickered in many-spired silver candelabra fashioned like castles with many turrets-castles that looked to be about three feet high, as they rose up from long, mirror-smooth wooden tables. Hulgor looked restless, and stumped down this dining hall glaring at portraits of women who looked just as irritated to be up on the walls as he did to be looking at them. This must be Varandaur, the great Delcamper family castle that faced the stone city of Ragalar across a bay. Wasn't a Delcamper a friend to the boy king? A bard?
Flaeros, that was his name. He must be nephew to Hulgor. Hmm. Perhaps Varandaur would not prove so safe a bolt-hole after all…
Well, 'twasn't as if this particular baron had a great array of folk he could trust, to call on. Phelinndar sighed. In fact, 'twas Hulgor or no one, if one spread blunt truth bare before the gods.
"Hulgor," he hissed, willing the old noble to hear him. "Hulgor!"
The man in green stiffened and then shot a dark, suspicious glance over his shoulder. Then he turned to follow it, and stalked down the room, peering in all directions.
"Hulgar!" Phelinndar whisper-shouted, trying to will himself into the old man's way. The Delcamper man came to an abrupt stop, as if he'd seen something in front of him, and stared at Phelinndar-or through him.
Hear me, the baron willed, and see me. Let me hear you. Hulgor's lips were moving-angrily, by the looks of them-but Phelinndar could hear nothing. Nothing but softly swirling mists, like distant waves lapping on a beach.
Three look down! Bebolt this grauling Stone, anyway, and all such things! Why should mages swagger around hurling doom with them, and all the rest of Asmarand have to bow and cringe or the? Why couldn't a baron-