If only the winds would rage this forcefully on a steady tack, we should complete our passage in far less than a month. But I must strive to be patient, and hope that the vessel holds together amid the storm waves. It will be good to see the sun again—and to be able to stand still, and get dry!
2
Kasarian of Krevonel—his account of the Baronial Assembly, Alizon City
(Alizonian calendar: 5th Day, Moon of the Knife, the 1052nd Year Since the Betrayal)
I first saw the magic-cursed jewel when it was placed upon a silver chain around the neck of my sire’s murderer. It was the fifth day of the Moon of the Knife, in the One Thousand Fifty-second Year Since the Betrayal. All land barons of Alizon were required to attend the New Year’s Assembly for Presentation to the Lord Baron of that year’s noble whelps come-of-age.
I was standing not two spear lengths from the throne when Lord Baron Norandor raised his sword to amend the customary order of procedure. Except for his eyes, his face was concealed by the white-furred Lord Hound’s mask. He was a thinner man than the previous Lord Baron Mallandor, his dead littermate, so his voice echoed within the mask as he summoned Baron Gurborian to approach the throne.
Any matter concerning the murderer of my sire demanded my most wary attention. Gurborian’s schemes had for years permeated all of Alizon. Only the slowest-witted barons were unaware of his ambition to seize the Lord Hound’s mask for himself. Four moons before, I had received a private letter from Volorian, my sire’s elder littermate, complaining that Gurborian’s hirelings were prowling near our northeasterly estates. Could yet more threats against our Line be straining at Gurborian’s leashes?
When Gurborian had knelt before the throne, Norandor arose, sheathing his sword. “Worthy Gurborian of the Line Sired by Reptur,” the Lord Baron proclaimed, “my unfortunate littermate esteemed your counsel, as do I. For your able warfare in the Dales across the sea, as well as for other valued services, he allowed you to bear this singular token of Alizon’s approval.”
The torchlight in the Great Hall seemed to ignite a coal of blue fire in the Lord Baron’s outstretched hand. I edged forward to secure a better view. The light glittered from a jewel the size of a moor hen’s egg, and flared between Norandor’s fingers as he stooped to attach the stone to Gurborian’s baronial neck chain. “Now I, Norandor, Lord Baron of Alizon,” he continued, “reaffirm that approval by conferring upon you his notable prize, to be borne by you during your lifetime.”
A muffled snort erupted from the elderly baron standing next to me. “As soon as Gurborian’s dead,” he muttered, “Reptur’s pack had best hasten to return that bauble before the Lord Baron’s guard break in to claim it.”
I was the only one near enough to hear the remark, but I gave no sign that I had. I was fairly certain that old Baron Moragian was not a member of Gurborian’s current faction, but it was unwise to acknowledge such a comment where an unfriendly witness might notice. My outward detachment, I must admit, was also partly due to my attention’s being so closely focused on the jewel; never before had I seen such a stone. It continued to draw my eye even after Gurborian rejoined his coterie.
Our Line had no whelps to be presented that year. When Sherek, the new Master of Hounds, called for our pack’s representative, I strode forward to kneel before the throne. “In the stead of Baron Volorian,” I asserted, “I, Kasarian, appear for the Line Sired by Krevonel.” Norandor acknowledged me with a wave of his hand, and I withdrew to one side.
The Great Hall’s air seemed suddenly stifling, the torches far too bright. Within my head, the nagging pain that for some nights had frustrated my efforts to sleep redoubled its thumping. Desiring a temporary refuge away from the noisy throng, I slipped out into the corridor leading to the oldest part of Alizon Castle.
I knew of one particular room where I was unlikely to be disturbed. The ancient mosaic designs on its walls and floor were similar to those in one room in my own castle here in the City. I plucked a torch from a hall sconce to carry with me, but torches within the mosaic room had already been kindled by the servants.
Behind the pierced stone screen along one side of the chamber was a long bench probably used by serving slaves in times past when the room was more frequented. Due to winter drafts, a large tapestry had been hung across the room side of the screen, but it was threadbare in spots. If a person behind the screen chose his vantage point with care, he could see quite well into the main chamber. I had not intended to spy unseen, but I had only just sat down on the bench when I heard the scrape of boots entering the main room.
There were two intruders—one whose voice I did not recognize, but the other voice was Gurborian’s. I moved very quietly to obtain a glimpse of them through the tapestry fabric. The second man was Gratch of Gorm, Gurborian’s prime henchman. He had been named in Volorian’s letter as one of those prying and poking about in the mountains near our estates. From their first words, I could draw two immediate conclusions: they mistakenly assumed that the mosaic chamber was empty, and they plotted treason against Lord Baron Norandor.
Keeping his voice low, as befitted a devoted conspirator, Gratch said, “We are safe here from interference, my lord. No one followed us. I commented openly that we were going to the Kennels to survey the breeding bitches.”
Gurborian scowled. “Lord Baron Fool has named Sherek to be Master of Hounds. I had hoped to influence the choice from among our faction, but my bribes were evidently insufficient. That naming is done, and of less import than your news. How stands Bolduk’s faction—for us or against us?”
Reluctant to answer, Gratch toyed for a moment with his belt dagger. “I tried both the strategies we had discussed, my lord—hinting at dire costs for rejection, while promising fair rewards for alliance. Despite my best efforts, old Baron Bolduk continues obstinate, clinging to the senseless notion that only the Kolder are strong enough to vanquish Estcarp. I told him that the last Kolder within our borders have been dead for seven moons. The late Hound Master’s misguided foray into Estcarp should have convinced the very doorposts that Alizon can no longer expect any aid from the Kolder.”
“Bolduk is very like a doorpost,” mused Gurborian. “Perhaps a brisk fire at his base might melt his stubbornness. His blood feud with Ferlikian could always be revived by a word or two in the proper ears. Still, I would prefer Bolduk’s Line to be with us or neutral. Was he not impressed by your mention of our planned Escorian alliance?”
Gratch shook his head. “It is a delicate matter, my lord,” he said dourly, “to speak of any magical matter to Bolduk. Even though by our hoped-for alliance we should control the lash of spells, and for a welcome change, Estcarp’s crones would suffer the effects, Bolduk persists in abhorring any recourse to the weapons of our sworn enemies.”
Gurborian paced back and forth, his impatience evident in every stride. “Why can he not see—any weapon that might succeed must be employed? The Witches have thwarted us far too long with their foul containment spells woven from the Forbidden Hills across the Alizon Gap. It would be rare sport for them to be scourged by magic stronger than their own. If only we had an Escorian mage to exhibit . . . even an apt apprentice could persuade the undecided among the barons to join with us.”
Eager to placate his master, Gratch leaned toward Gurborian. “My lord, I am certain that I shall be successful in my latest negotiations. Today I received a message from my most reliable source near the Escorian border. If his information is correct, he should soon be able to arrange a meeting for me with a lower level student who has traveled in Escore and—”