“A good idea. Start out with the most obvious one. Let us just say that I am on a grand tour of the continent, catching up on things. I have so much to see, and so little time! But also, I have always had a liking for Hebrion. Do you know, Golophin, that there are more of the Dweomer-folk here in this kingdom than in any other? Less, since the purges orchestrated by the Mother Church, of course, but still an impressive number. Torunna is almost wholly deserted by our people now, Almark never had many to begin with—too close to Charibon. And in Fimbria there was some kind of mind-set which seemed to militate against our folk from the earliest times. One could hypothesize endlessly on the whys and wherefores, but I have come to believe that there is something in the very bones of the earth which causes Dweomer-folk to be born, an anomaly which is more common in some locations than others. Were your parents mages?”
“No. My father was an official in the Merchants’ Guild.”
“There—you see? It is not heredity. There is some other factor at work. We are freaks of nature, Golophin, and have been persecuted as such for all of recorded history. But that will change.”
“What of Bardolin? What have you done with him?”
“As I said, I have begun to unlock his powers. It is a painful procedure—such things have never been easy—but in the end he will thank me for it.”
“So he is still alive, somewhere out in the west. Are the myths true then? There is actually a Western Continent?”
“The myths are true. I had a hand in creating some of them. Golophin, in the west we have an entire world of our own, a society founded on the Dweomer. There is something back there in the very air we breathe—”
“There are more of you then?”
“I am the only one of the original founders who survived thus far. But there are others who came later. We are few, growing fewer. That is why I have returned to the Old World. We need new blood, new ideas. And we intend to bring with us a few ideas of our own.”
“Bring with you? So you mages from the west are intent upon returning to Normannia!”
“One day, yes. That is our hope. My work at present is the preparation of the world for our coming. You see now why I am here? We will need friendly voices raised on our behalf in every kingdom, else our arrivall might result in panic, even violence. All we wish, brother mage, is to come home.”
A sudden thought shook Golophin. “One moment—the wolf image. That was a simulacrum, yes?”
Aruan grinned. “I wondered when that question would come up. No, it was not. I am a shifter, a sufferer of the black disease, though I no longer see it as an affliction.”
“That is impossible. A mage cannot also be a lycanthrope.”
“Bardolin thought so also. He knows better now. I am a master of all Seven Disciplines, and I am busy creating more. What I am here tonight to ask, Golophin, is whether you will join us.”
“Join you? I’m not sure I understand.”
“I think you do. Soon I will no longer be a furtive night visitor, but a power in the world. I want you to be my colleague. I can raise you very high, Golophin. You would no longer be the servant of a king, but a veritable king yourself.”
“Some might think your ambitions a little too wide-ranging. How are you going to manage this?”
“Time will tell. But it is going to happen. The lines are being drawn all over the continent, though not many are aware of them yet. Will you join us, Golophin? I would consider it an honour to have a man such as you in our camp. Not merely a powerful mage, but a keen mind used to the intricacies and intrigues of power. What do you say?”
“You are very eloquent, Aruan, but vague. Do you fear to tell me too much?”
Aruan shrugged. “You must take some things on trust, that is true. But I cannot relate to you the details of a plan which is still incomplete. For now, it would be enough if you could at least consider yourself our friend.”
The lean old wizard stared at his visitor. Aruan’s face was angular and autocratic, and there was a cruelty lurking there in the eyes. Not a kindly, nor yet a generous countenance. But Golophin sensed that in this, at least, he was speaking the truth. Imagine: an entirely new world out there beyond the endless ocean, a society of mages living without fear of the pyre. It was a staggering concept, one that sent a whole golden series of speculations racing through Golophin’s mind. And they wanted to come back here, to the Old World. What could be wrong with finding a home for such… such castaways? The knowledge they must have gathered through the centuries, working in peace and without fear! The ancient wizard had a point: how many more decades or centuries of persecution could the Dweomer-folk take before they were wiped out altogether? At some point they had to stand together and halt it, turn around the prejudices of men and demand acceptance for themselves. It was a glittering idea, one which for a second made Golophin’s heart soar with hope. If it were only possible!
And yet, and yet—there was something deeply disturbing here. This Aruan, for all his surface charm, had a beast inside him. Golophin could not forget that one, desperate mind-scream he had heard Bardolin give thousands of leagues away.
Golophin! Help me in the name of God—
The terror in that cry. What had engendered it?
“Well?” Aruan asked. “What do you say?”
“All right. Consider me friendly to your cause. But I will not divulge any of the secrets or strategies of the Hebrian crown. I have other loyalties too.”
“That is enough for me. I thank you, Golophin.” And Aruan held out a hand.
But Golophin refused to shake it. Instead he turned and refilled his glass. “I suggest you leave now. I have to be on my way back to the city very soon. But”—he paused—“I wish to speak with you again. I possess an inquisitive mind, and there is so much I would know.”
“By all means. I look forward to it. But before I go, I will show my goodwill with a gift…”
Before Golophin could move, Aruan had swooped forward like a huge dark raptor. His hand came down upon Golophin’s forehead and seemed fixed there, as though the fingers had been driven like nails through the skull. Golophin’s glass dropped out of his hand and shattered on the stone floor. His eyes rolled up to show the whites and he bared his teeth in a helpless snarl.
Moisture beaded Aruan’s face in a cold sheen. “This is a great gift,” he said in a low voice. “And a genuine one. You have a subtle mind, my friend. I want it intact. I want loyalty freely given. There.” He stepped back. Golophin fell to his knees, the breath a harsh gargle in his throat.
“You will have to experiment a little before you can use it properly,” Aruan told him. “But that inquisitive mind of yours will find it a fascinating tool. Just do not try to cross the ocean with it in search of your friend Bardolin. I cannot allow that yet. Fare thee well, Golophin. For now.” And he was gone.
Panting, Golophin laboured to his feet. His head was ringing as though someone had been tolling a bell in his ears for hours. He felt drunk, clumsy, but there was a weird sense of well-being burning through him.
And there—the knowledge was there, accessible. It opened out before him in a blaze of newfound power and possibilities.
Aruan had given him the Discipline of Translocation.
NINE
W ILD-EYED, filthy and exhausted, the prisoners were herded in by Marsch’s patrol like so many cattle. There were perhaps a dozen of them. Corfe was called to the van of the army by a beaming Cathedraller to inspect them. He halted the long column and cantered forward. Marsch greeted him with a nod.
The prisoners sank to the cold ground. Their arms had been bound to their sides and some of them had blood on their faces. Marsch’s troopers were all leading extra horses with Merduk harness: compact, fine-boned beasts with the small ears and large eyes of the eastern breeds.