I gestured for my hand slate. Jonja read the words aloud as swiftly as I could write them. “I have just seen my betrothal jewel being worn by an Alizonder baron at their New Year’s Assembly. He is the Baron Gurborian of the Line Sired by Reptur, murderer of this man’s father, and his archenemy.”
Duratan’s exclamation was lost in the general astonished babble. I remained seated on the stone floor, trembling from its physical chill as well as my sensing experience. Previously, my visions of lost articles or places to search for them had come to me in fragmentary dreams. I could not recall so vivid and coherent an impression as this, and certainly never before while I was awake.
Ouen began to speak, but Jonja interrupted. “Look!” she said sharply. “Our uninvited visitor is stirring.”
“And feeling for his weapons,” Duratan observed. “He will be disappointed to find them missing.”
I reached for my staff, and with Jonja’s assistance, rose to my feet. I did not want to be at a disadvantage to any Alizonder, whether he was armed or disarmed.
6
Kasarian—his account requested for Lormt’s archives, following his sudden transport to Lormt (7th Day, Moon of the Knife/Month of the Ice Dragon)
Muffled voices intruded into the darkness enfolding me . . . I could hear people talking, but their words were unintelligible. As I became increasingly aware, I struggled to move my limbs. Hard, cold . . . stone beneath me—why should I be lying on a stone floor? My left hand was empty—where was my dagger? I felt for my throwing knives, but my belt loops were stripped bare of all weapons. Worse still, the elder’s key was no longer in my right hand. Had I been robbed as well as disarmed? I strove to deal with a daunting rush to memories. I had stepped through that eldritch oval of light deep beneath Krevonel Castle, and by some foul magic, I had evidently been spirited elsewhere. Estcarpian enemies—just before the darkness had claimed me, I had seen Estcarpians.
I opened my eyes, and sat up cautiously to survey my situation. I was indeed outnumbered by foes, but so far, they had only disarmed me, not actively attacked me—nor had they stolen my baron’s chain or belt wallet. As soon as I moved, they had stopped speaking. The five of us sat—or stood—in silence, peering tensely at one another. I wondered if more enemies could be lurking beyond the flickering, limited lantern light. The portal through which I had come had disappeared, depriving us of its additional illumination.
This chamber was vast—distant walls and ceilings receded into impenetrable darkness. Unsettling as my surroundings were, I was more immediately concerned with the presence of my adversaries. The four figures before me were formidable: two males of Estcarp’s witchly Old Race, one Old Race female garbed like the spell-casting hags of the Dales, and one other startling female. For a heart-stopping instant, due to her properly white hair, pale eyes, and fair skin, I almost mistook her for an Alizonder, but her obvious comradeship with these Witch folk and her inappropriate stance quickly altered my opinion. She was grasping a sturdy staff as if she knew how to wield it; quite impossible for an Alizonder female. When I stood up to attain a better vantage, she was the closest to me. Her hands betrayed her advanced age. Why should an elderly female, clearly not an Estcarpian, join in company with Old Race fighters and a spell-casting hag?
Although he bore no sword, the old male appeared to be the sire of the group. He gestured toward some wooden benches nearby, and said in slowly, carefully-pronounced Estcarpian, “Let us sit down and talk together peacefully.”
It had been some time since I had heard the enemy’s speech. A few of my fellow barons with scholarly talents had learned the rudiments of Estcarpian in order to be able to question the rare live prisoners that we seized within our borders, but I had not participated in an interrogation for several years. I judged it prudent at this point to conceal my understanding until I had a better assessment of my position. I therefore feigned ignorance of his words, and countered in Alizonian, “May I be told where I am and who you are?”
The younger male held a serviceable knife in his right hand, but he did not flourish it. His easy familiarity with the weapon and his erect bearing suggested soldierly experience. Furthermore, he limped when he moved, as if maimed from an injury to his left leg. As soon as I spoke, he faced the old male, and said impatiently, “Surely Morfew has been roused by now! As you predicted, we do require his skill with Alizonian speech.”
Morfew—the name almost caused me to betray myself, but I disguised my reaction by taking a step to one side. There had once been a certain noble Line in Alizon, before my sire’s Presentation. I had seen its breeding lists among the baronial records, and the males’ names took that form. I was searching my memory for the name of the Line Sire when a spark of light pricked the distant darkness.
As the light grew closer, I could see two slowly moving figures. An Old Race female led the way, carrying the lantern, which disclosed a garish birth stain across her face. I suppressed a shudder. We of Alizon do not allow deformed whelps to live. Far better for each Line to breed only the strong and the fit. The female stretched back her free hand to steady a thin, elderly man with long white hair. Surely, I thought, he could not be an Alizonder . . . but when he sat down on a bench near to me, he peered at me with pale blue eyes and addressed me in halting Alizonian.
You have nothing to fear in this place, young man, he said. “We intend you no harm. I am Morfew. . . .”
“Not of the Line Sired by Ternak!” I interrupted him, for the name had come to my mind.
He blinked at me, rather like an owl disturbed from its daytime slumber. “My sire was bred of that Line, yes,” he replied, “but it has been sixty years since I have received any word of our pack. You will excuse my rough speech—I am the sole Alizonder resident here, so my tongue’s facility has declined from lack of practice.”
“I must relate hard news of your Line from a time before my whelping,” I said. “The Line Sired by Ternak has been considered dead these many years since the last known males perished in the blood feud.”
Morfew grasped the edge of the bench, his face drained of all color. “Blood feud. . . .” he whispered, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Wait. Matters concerning my pack can be discussed later. I must convey your words to my friends. This man knows my family,” he told the others in Estcarpian. “He bears ill tidings from long ago; they have been destroyed.”
“I sorrow that you must receive such dire word from the past,” the Old Race sire responded, “yet we need to know now who this man is and for what purpose he has come here.”
Morfew bowed his head for a moment, then stared straight at me. “You wear a baron’s chain,” he noted. “Who sired your Line? Why have you come to us?”
I thought quickly. All the extensive Ternak lands had been seized by the Lord Baron of that day. Half had been awarded to the survivors of the blood feud, but it could be possible that this old baron might mount a valid claim for his land rights. It was advisable to speak him fair. I saluted him properly, touching first my Hound badge, then my Line badge. “I hail you, Morfew, revealed restored Baron of the Line Sired by Ternak. I am Kasarian, of the Line Sired by Krevonel. I know not how I come to stand before you in this strange place. I stepped through a curious portal in Alizon, and must assume that I have been delivered here by magic. Is this place near to our common border?”
Morfew held up a restraining hand. “You have indeed been transported a great distance, young man. These vaults lie beneath the citadel of Lormt, far to Alizon’s south.”
I could not believe him. I had of course heard of Lormt. In Alizon, it was dismissed as an isolated Estcarpian castle not worth assaulting, a distant gathering place for useless, doddering scholars who scrabbled among dusty writings. Even Estcarp’s Witches scorned the old males who laired at Lormt. I had certainly never expected to travel thither.