The Magestone

26 Mereth—events at Lormt (21st Day, Month of the Ice Dragon/20th Day, Moon of the Knife)

At first, Elsenar’s mental voice totally dominated my senses, but gradually I recovered an overlapping awareness of my Lormt surroundings. I found that I could briefly lay the jewel aside while I wrote Elsenar’s words for Nolar to read aloud. I wished that the others in the room could “hear” the degree of urgency underlying Elsenar’s magical communication. Somehow I knew beyond any doubt that there could be no possibility of deceit in such a message. The emotional overtones were stark—Elsenar had been convinced that his sole hope for rescue depended upon the response of his enspelled plea.

I glanced up for an instant. Lormt’s party of listeners were thoroughly engrossed by Elsenar’s account of his unnatural incarceration. As I resumed my transcribing, Elsenar’s words “to produce a child mute from birth” echoed through my mind. I was gripped by an icy sense of foreboding. I forced my fingers to continue to wield my quill until two unbelievable phrases assailed me like the lash of a whip: “I, Elsenar your father,” and “your mother, the Lady Veronda of the Dales.”

Had I possessed a voice, I would have cried out in utter consternation. I did not feel the jewel drop from my nerveless fingers as a tide of darkness swelled within me, blotting out all sensations.

Afterwards, the others told me that quite abruptly, I seemed to stop breathing, and fell back against the pillows. While Jonja chafed my hands, Nolar fetched her nearby satchel and thrust a handful of crushed herbal leaves under my nose.

I was jolted from my swoon by a bracing, acrid scent that made me sneeze. As soon as I opened my eyes, I motioned for the press of figures to move away from my bedside so that I could orient myself and catch my breath.

I struggled desperately to make sense of what must be true, yet seemed unthinkable. Elsenar the mage was my true father . . . but until my mother had sought refuge amid the ancient ruins beyond Ferndale, Elsenar had been trapped there for a thousand years. I had found the answer to the vital question I had journeyed so far to ask; I now knew my true father’s identity. As an exceedingly unsettling secondary discovery, I had also acquired yet another unexpected addition to my kinship list, albeit one more distantly removed in time. I had been sired by Elsenar almost seventy-six years ago, but a thousand years earlier, he had sired the foundation for the House of Krevonel. Kasarian was thus a peculiarly time-displaced kinsman of mine! With a trembling hand, I reached for a new sheet of parchment, and wrote the last astonishing words of Elsenar’s message, to which I added my kinship deduction.

When Nolar read the words, Kasarian’s face blanched to such a degree that I almost believed he might swoon. Instead, he resorted to his habit of furiously twisting his gold signet ring. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, as if his throat were dry. “How can we know,” he began, then stopped and poured himself a measure of barley water from the jug Nolar had prepared for me. At any other time, I am sure that an Alizonder baron would have spat out such an insipid brew, with appropriate imprecations. It was a telling indication of Kasarian’s distraction that he drank a full goblet without a murmur. I doubt that he knew what he had swallowed. The moisture, however, did restore his voice to its usual firmness. He resumed his unfinished question. “How can we know where to seek our common . . . Foresire [the very word seemed sour in his mouth] if his postern to that place of his imprisonment has been magically destroyed? Surely your lady mother is dead and cannot direct us as Elsenar had intended.”

I hastened to write, “Even if that ancient postern still existed, we would have no way to locate the site near Lormt where Elsenar conjured it. No, as we embark upon any effort to succor Elsenar, we must pursue our journey to the Dales by ship, horse, and possibly on foot. I was not yet twenty when my mother died, but I recall many walks with her during my early years through the unnamed valleys near my birthplace. I believe that I can identify the very site of Elsenar’s immurement. My mother once pointed out to me some ancient stone ruins within which she had sheltered, she said, from a winter storm before my birth the following summer.”

I stopped writing, suddenly aware that my grasp was bending the quill near its breaking point. Like a sheaf of brittle leaf fragments tossed by an icy wind, previously unexplained segments of memory abruptly formed a coherent pattern.

As one reared in a large family, my mother had longed for sons to assume her Clan’s trading responsibilities. She had trained me, her only child, to be useful despite my physical limitations. Could it be that her substantial trading successes had been achieved because of the magical influences of Elsenar’s jewel? It now seemed reasonable that those strange dreams that had affected both my mother and me had been prompted by the jewel’s close presence.

I wondered if my mother had begun to regain her memories of her encounter with Elsenar before she departed upon her last, fatal trip. With searing insight, I confronted the harsh truth from our past: the heaviest strokes of evil fortune had befallen us when we became separated from the jewel—when it was first stored away, then lost in the looting of our treasure room at Vennesport. My mother had been swept away to her death, while I had suffered the torments of the war against the Dales. Now that Elsenar’s jewel was once again in my hand, I was obliged to act upon his appeal for kin-aid.

Another shard of memory intruded, piercing me like a dagger thrust. Painfully long ago, I had shared my private feeling with Doubt, writing for him in our secret script expressions of the emotions I could not voice. Compelled now to unburden myself, I scribbled furiously, “Intolerable frustration! To be confined in this feeble body that can no longer sit a horse or climb a mountain track! Elsenar’s geas from the past was directed to me—I was deliberately bred to fulfill this charge! When my mother was ready to give me Elsenar’s jewel as my betrothal gift, she would have been empowered to explain the circumstances of her agreement with him. With the assistance of my prospective husband, I should have been able to undertake the mission to set Elsenar free . . . but my mother died before I became betrothed, before she could tell me about Elsenar’s plight. Blood oath binds me to honor her commitment, but in my present condition, I cannot contemplate such a journey. My predicament is unbearable!”

I paused again, reluctant to continue, but unable to ignore the only other answer to the conundrum. Once more, I had to force my hand to shape the words for Nolar to read aloud. “Yet I can perceive one remaining alternative.”

After hearing my words read, Kasarian nodded slowly. “I also bear the blood of Elsenar,” he said in a grave voice. “Would you permit me to attempt this quest in your stead?”

Duratan intervened. “You cannot seriously propose to travel in the Dales,” he objected. “Although more than twenty years have passed, the wounds Alizon inflicted upon the Dales have still not entirely healed. You would be far likelier to be met with a sword edge than a journey cup.”

Kasarian regarded Duratan as if he were a particularly willful hound refusing to follow a clear trail. “I am accustomed to living with a sword edge ever near my throat,” he retorted. “Why should that circumstance hinder the making of reasonable plans? When I alone can satisfy the stricture, the conclusion is obvious: I must go.”

“But can you so easily abandon your baronial duties in Alizon for such an extended journey?” Nolar inquired. “Besides, troubling questions must arise concerning Gurborian’s sudden disappearance. Might you not be suspected of some complicity?”

Kasarian shook his head impatiently. “I answer only to the Lord Baron, and then only if I witlessly fail to make sufficient preparations in advance. Gurborian provoked many powerful enemies. Before I left Krevonel Castle, I ordered Bodrik to dispatch in two days’ time a persuasive letter to the Lord Baron suggesting four plausible causes for Gurborian’s abrupt absence. I further informed the Lord Baron that I should be engaged for a period of weeks in a needful evaluation of my most distant estates. I shall not be expected in Alizon City until I choose to return there.”

From her position in the hall, Jonja half rose from her chair. “Why would you commit yourself to this quest?” she demanded. “You have made clear to us your utter aversion to objects of Power. Do you expect us to believe that you would personally bear Elsenar’s mighty jewel over the vast distance to surrender it to its very master?”

“You speak plainly to me,” Kasarian replied. “I shall be equally forthright. No, I do not welcome the burden of this accursed jewel, yet it belongs to my Foresire, who, if he presently exists, commands it be restored to him. I perceive this journey as an imperative duty to our Line of Krevonel. I also venture to suggest that it would be advantageous for our collective interests should our factions be strengthened by the backing of so puissant a mage. Surely he would incline toward granting that boon to his rescuer.”

While Kasarian spoke, I had reluctantly reached my own decision. I handed Nolar my written comments. “The ruins you must seek,” she read aloud, “lie near the border of the Waste, the whole breadth of the Dales inland from the sea coast. You may encounter severe peril in nearly every inhabited area.”

Kasarian surveyed me ironically. “Lady, not long ago, I would have said that no foreign cur from outside our borders could live to penetrate Alizon City . . . yet you did.” Addressing the others, he added, “I have observed that the wits of you Lormt folk can be sharp beyond my previous imaginings. If you can craft a credible tale to explain my presence in the Dales, I shall willingly journey under its protection.” Pausing, Kasarian smiled suddenly, which softened the harsh angles of his face. He turned back to me and said, “You dyed your hair to improve your disguise, Lady. Could not mine be similarly darkened to placate the hostile eyes of the Dales?”

“I must say,” Morfew observed wryly, “I was not at all certain that Mereth could successfully impersonate an Alizonder baron. It is an even more difficult prospect to believe that you can deceive discerning Dalesfolk into accepting you as one of their own. You are far too pale all over, young man—you would have to soak your whole body in a bath of oak bark extract.”

“Perhaps not.” Nolar’s quiet voice drew our attention to her. “Have not children been sired upon Daleswomen by Alizonders?” she asked. “Kasarian might claim to be such a halfling.”

My hand trembled as I wrote, “I know of no such unfortunates who were . . . allowed to live. During the war, many Daleswomen took their own lives rather than bear children of shame.”

Kasarian had been listening intently, his head inclined a little to one side like an inquisitive hawk watching the grass below for signs of an unsuspecting mouse. “I was four when the invasion began,” he said. “To my knowledge, no mixed-breed pups were ever brought back from the Dales. It may be, however, that I can suggest a circumstance under which a mixed-breed of my age could reasonably claim existence. Formerly, Alizon dispatched raiding vessels which at times returned to port with captive breeding stock.”

Jonja’s eyes widened. “You cannot mean that you used captured women . . . . ” Her voice trailed off into appalled silence.

“Rumors of such events have reached us,” Ouen remarked coldly. “We had hoped they were mistaken.”

Kasarian did not appear at all perturbed by our obvious revulsion. “Do not you Estcarpians breed with the Sulcar at times to invigorate your lines?” he inquired. “We barons, of course, have always preserved our pure blood, but among the common folk, captured outside females have produced useful servants and workmen. Could I not represent myself as one such?”

With a heavy heart, I wrote, “In years past, some of our trading ships have been, we thought, lost at sea. We assumed that they had been sunk in storms, but . . . .” I could write no further. It was too painful to contemplate what horrid lives our tradefolk must have endured had they been taken to Alizon to serve as brood mares.

Nolar did not hide her repugnance when she declared, “We of Estcarp deplore and reject any form of slavery.”

Kasarian shrugged. “It has ever been so in Alizon,” he said. “The strong exploit and rule the weak.”

“As important as such matters are in the lives of our people,” Ouen asserted sternly, “we cannot at present address our divergencies. Whether we view this Alizonian practice as traditional or offensive, it exists, and perhaps we can make use of it in a constructive manner.”

“Suppose. . . .” Nolar looked at me with a rueful expression, as if she understood my barely restrained grief. “Suppose,” she resumed, “we say that Kasarian’s mother was aboard a trading vessel from the Dales—perhaps a coasting ship blown far enough out to sea to be intercepted by an Alizonian raider. Reared as an oppressed servant, he would have schemed to escape whenever an opportunity arose.”

“I can contribute the opportunity,” Jonja offered. “Three years ago, when Karsten clashed with Estcarp, all our lands were in an uproar. If ever a flight from Alizonian captivity could have succeeded, it would have been then, while the border with Estcarp was beset with thrusts against the spell barriers.”

Morfew rubbed his hands together. “And I foresee the necessary linkage to Lormt,” he exclaimed. “Kasarian could have slipped into northern Estcarp and apprenticed himself to a wandering trader whose travels led the pair to Lormt. But what excuse can we offer for Kasarian’s dangerous foray into the Dales—surely not that he seeks Dales-kin of his presumed mother?”

I had finally controlled my internal turmoil of memories, and was able to write upon my slate, “Let us take account of the knowledge we possess. I know the Dales, and I know trade. As Morfew’s suggested apprentice, Kasarian could undertake a journey for his master. Among Lormt’s countless documents, surely there must be maps of the Dales. Let us say that upon one such old map, the merchant found a reference to a possible source for something valuable in trade . . . but not too valuable.” I stopped to think while Nolar read, then wrote my conclusion. “I know the perfect material: lamantine wood. It is prized, but not so much so that a venture to seek it would attract brigands. It is also to our advantage that the area where Kasarian must pursue his search is near the Waste, which will likely discourage any offers to accompany him. Futhermore, I can write letters to my Sulcar friends to secure Kasarian’s sea passage, and to tradefolk in the Dales to request their aid to him along his way inland.”

“A most plausible tale indeed,” Morfew pronounced when Nolar finished reading my parchment. “How say you, Kasarian? Can you pose as merchant’s apprentice?”

During the reading, Kasarian had at first looked highly skeptical, but then his expression had grown more thoughtful and less doubtful. “I can try,” he said. “I have scant experience with trade,” he admitted frankly, “other than my periodic reviews of the steward’s accounts for Krevonel Castle, and my dealing in hounds.” Kasarian turned to me. “You will have to instruct me, Lady, regarding such matters, as well as assist me with the speech of the Dales.”

“An accomplished scholar, Irvil of Norsdale, came here some years ago to engage in kinship studies,” Ouen said. “His joints stiffened so during the winters that he found further travel too painful and asked to reside with us. He will gladly teach the spoken tongue of the Dales.”

“Before we embark—again—upon such strenuous activities,” Morfew observed plaintively, “can we not consider at least a brief respite for food? My aged stomach reminds me that the hour for supping has come . . . and gone.”

Jonja stood up. “We have chattered too long as it is,” she proclaimed. “Mereth requires rest after her ordeal. Out, all of you, and do not trouble her again until morning.”

I lifted my quill to write a protest, but Jonja plucked it from my grasp. “Out!” she commanded, and like a flock of singularly meek sheep, the whole troop, except for Nolar, filed out of the bedchamber.

“Before I retire to the chamber next door,” Nolar promised me, “I shall warm another cup of broth for you, and replenish your barley water, since Kasarian unaccountably drank your supply. Should you need me during the night, you can ring this little bell suspended on a cord from the bed-stead.”

Although my mind longed to weigh and assess the events just past, as well as the burgeoning prospects for the morrow, I found that I could scarcely keep my eyes open after I had drunk the second cup of broth. Nolar sensed my desire to keep Elsenar’s jewel close by me . . . but not where I might accidentally touch it bare-handed in my sleep. She dropped the chained pendant into a small leather bag she took from her herb satchel. My last vision from that momentous day was a fading glimpse of Nolar’s sleeve as she gently tucked the bag out of sight under my pillows.