“Thank you, child,” Morfew said, subsiding breathlessly into a chair. “I have not hastened this rapidly,” he gasped, “since the time of the Turning when I abandoned my exposed position in the courtyard just before the long wall fell.”
I reached for a second candle holder to cast more light on the faded ink marks. Although I could not read the writing, being able to see it helped focus my mind upon the message it conveyed. Elsenar had composed it during that time just after the horrendous collapse of the Master Gate. I wrote for Nolar to read aloud, “Before Elsenar launched his second attempt to conjure a postern to Arvon, he wrote this letter to the surviving Mages of the Light remaining at Lormt. He feared that other Gates might be similarly opened by the Dark mages, and pleaded for a concerted effort to frame a spell . . . I find this difficult to grasp, but Elsenar seems to have thought that some . . . device sustained by a spell could detect the presence of threatening Gates, or possibly guard against their opening at a given spot. His letter is incomplete. Were there no other related pages found near this one?”
Duratan shook his head, dislodging a shower of fine, soot-like particles from his hooded jerkin. “As you see, we have been burrowing. Only two days ago, a scholar chanced to notice a crack in the wall of one of the storage bins in our root cellar. Once we shifted the roots, and broke through the back wall, we gained entrance to a small chamber choked with ancient boxes and chests.” He sneezed. “And dust,” he added. “Ouen is there now, guiding the removal of each container. Many of the wooden boxes have been weakened by age or ruptured during the Turning.”
Morfew rubbed his hands together. “Documents are scattered about in glorious profusion,” he reported. “This leaf of Elsenar’s was atop one small stack, but the pages beneath it belonged to other collections. If any additional fragments by Elsenar were stored in that chamber, I am certain that Ouen will locate them.”
Duratan stood up. “I must return to assist him,” he said. “Our presentation to the Council of Witches would be immensely strengthened if we could alert them to the magical strategy that Elsenar conceived for discerning the sites of rogue Gates and posterns.”
Morfew yawned. “My bones remind me that I should be searching for my bed,” he observed. “On the morrow, Ouen will surely amend our letter to include this vital news. You and Jonja must delay your departure until we have examined every scrap of writing hidden in that root cellar.”
“I am certain,” Nolar said firmly, “that were Jonja here, she would advise Mereth to rest now, so that she will be able to transcribe any further messages by Elsenar.” Exhibiting a briskness reminiscent of Mistress Bethalie, Nolar resolutely expelled Duratan and Morfew from the room, then helped me settle for the night in a nearby quiet cubicle which we had converted into a bedchamber for my use. As she turned toward the door with her candle in hand, Nolar paused. “I shall go brew some cordials to sustain the searchers,” she remarked with a smile. “Should they find any more of Elsenar’s writings tonight, they may hasten back here to implore your interpretation, so you had best sleep while you can.”
Once Nolar had closed the door, I lay against the pillows, layers of warming quilts drawn up to my chin. My thoughts were too active to allow me to sleep.
I was concerned about Kasarian’s reception in Alizon. Even if he successfully explained his absence, he must henceforth contend with endangerment from all sides. The Lord Baron would be constantly—and justifiably—suspicious of plots against him; the equally vengeful Reptur forces would be pressing to impute responsibility for Gurborian’s disappearance; and all the other surviving members of Gurborian’s faction would still likely be dedicated to forging an alliance of convenience with Escore’s Dark mages. Even if Kasarian contrived to rally Volorian and some of the elder barons to his side, his position would remain extremely precarious . . . yet I had seen how competent Kasarian was, how quickly he acted and reacted. If anyone could thread his way through the deadly maze of Alizon’s incessant struggle for power, it should be Kasarian.
I also could not dismiss from my mind the uncertainties besetting us here at Lormt. We had to persuade the Council of Witches to take heed of our warning—but would they grant audience to Duratan and Jonja, and if they allowed Lormt’s case to be presented, would they agree to act decisively on our behalf? So much depended upon what further evidence we could provide concerning Elsenar’s plans to detect and, we had to hope, also seal or render harmless any Gates or posterns through which the Dark Forces of Escore might attack Estcarp. I had to wonder whether even clear instructions by an ancient mage could be successfully implemented by the Witches. Would their collective Power be sufficient to activate his spells? Would Elsenar have written down instructions for setting such spells? There seemed to be no end to the questions buzzing in my mind like a swarm of ill-tempered bees.
I could almost hear what Doubt would have said in his deep, earnest voice. “When you have more questions than you have answers, and when most of the questions demand time to be resolved, there is no use in wasting energy by fretting. Apply your strength to some task that can be accomplished, and let time furnish the facts you require to deal with the excess questions.”
My precious Doubt . . . I had dreamed about him only the previous night, recalling an incident that I had not thought about for years. The two of us had been examining the bolts of cloth stacked in one of our warehouses at Ulmsport. Other traders and messengers kept darting in and out, interrupting our tallying, until Doubt was festooned with three loops of cloth drawn out from separate bolts. After the final intrusion, Doubt spun around in frustration, and a great swirl of cloth unrolled from his shoulder down to the floor.
I could not, of course, laugh aloud, but I was quivering with amusement. He stared at me, affronted. “And what, may I ask,” he snapped, “is so uproarious?”
In a scrawl woefully mirth-shaken, I wrote on my slate, “You look like a piece of Elderdale twist-bread!”
Doubt glanced down at his unintended entanglement, and voiced a hearty laugh for both of us. “I had best extract myself then,” he exclaimed, “before I complete the knotting process. Although,” he added in cloth-muffled tones, “I’ve always heard that a properly knotted twist is a certain charm to ward off ill fortune.”
That dream had bridged the years as if no time had passed, but when I awoke, only the warmth of the memory lingered in my mind. I knew that I could never again feel the touch of Doubt’s hand on mine, except in memory, just as I could never again hold my betrothal jewel, the Magestone of Elsenar, gone with him to some magical place far beyond our understanding.
I realized how very much I wished that I had been able to present the Magestone to Doubt as the betrothal gift intended by my mother . . . yet I now clearly recognized that such a jewel of Power was not meant to adorn a mere bride. It was bound up in the very life of the mage who had activated and wielded it. By its awesome Power, it enabled Elsenar to travel vast distances and accomplish great works. Somehow, I felt in my heart that the Magestone had conveyed Elsenar to the place he had to go to be restored to wholeness. I could not say how I knew, but I knew. Now both Elsenar and his Magestone were irretrievably isolated from us. For centuries, they had been lapped aside, like two floating leaves diverted out of the stream of time into separate backwaters. Elsenar had been magically frozen in Narvok’s lair, as if sealed beneath a sheet of winter ice, while his exquisite jewel had passed from hand to hand, unrecognized for what it truly was until, by our efforts, it had been returned to its master. After that restoration, the pair of them had re-entered time’s on-flowing stream, now swept away from us to fulfill their magical destiny.