The Sorcerer of the North

15

The wind died away sometime before dawn as if, having done its appointed job of clearing the clouds from the sky, it knew it was time to move on. The following day dawned cold and bright, and when Will stirred from the small room the innkeeper had assigned to him, the morning sun glared brightly off the surrounding snowscape and streamed through the windows of the taproom.

Will greeted the tavern keeper over a mug of coffee. The kitchen maid had served him breakfast of toasted bread and slices of cold ham but, as ever, it was the coffee he craved. Apparently the tavern keeper was a kindred spirit. He poured himself a mug and sat opposite Will, taking a sip and sighing appreciatively.

"A good night last night," he said, an unspoken question behind the words. Will nodded.

"Cullum Gelderris is the name, by the way. We never got round to introductions last night."

Will shook the hand. "Will Barton," he said. The tavern keeper nodded several times, as if the name meant something to him.

"Yes, a good night it was," he repeated. Will sipped his coffee, saying nothing. Finally, Gelderris broached the subject that was on his mind.

"Be an even better one tonight. End of the week we usually get a good crowd. Be even bigger than usual if word gets round there's a jongleur in the village." He looked at Will across the top of his coffee cup. "Planning to stay another night, were you?"

Will was expecting this question. Even though he was eager to get on and reach Castle Macindaw, he knew that he had better stay another night at least. The pickings were good in the village, as he'd seen last night. If Gelderris was correct, and there was no reason to assume he wasn't, they'd be better tonight. It might seem suspicious if he passed up the chance to make good money, he realized. Still, a certain amount of bargaining was expected.

"I hadn't really decided," he said. "I suppose I could move on."

"Where to?" Gelderris asked quickly. Will shrugged as if the matter was of no great importance.

"Eventually, to Castle Macindaw. I've heard Lord Syron gives a warm welcome to entertainers. I suppose there's precious little to keep people occupied once the snows come," he added. But Gelderris was shaking his head.

"You'll get no welcome from Syron," he said. "He hasn't spoken a word these past two months or more."

Will frowned slightly, as if not understanding. "Why not? Has he suddenly got religion and taken a vow of silence?" He grinned to make sure Gelderris knew he was joking. But there was no answering smile from the tavern keeper.

"There's little of religion about it," he said darkly. "Just the opposite, in fact."

"Not the Black Art?" Will asked casually, using the county people's term for sorcery. This time, Gelderris glanced quickly around before answering.

"So they say," he said, his voice lowered. "Struck down, he was. Healthy as you or me one minute. The next, he's lying close to death, barely breathing, eyes wide open but seeing nothing, hearing nothing and saying nothing."

"The healers, what do they say?" Will asked. Gelderris snorted in scorn.

"What do they ever know? They can't explain his condition. Nor can they do anything to ease it. Occasionally, he rouses himself enough to take a little food, but he's barely conscious even then. And then he's gone again, back into his trance."

Will set his empty coffee mug down, thought about another cup, then reluctantly dismissed the idea. Since he'd been living by himself, he had become a coffee hound and it was time to moderate his behavior.

"Is this anything to do with that business last night?" he asked. "That mysterious warrior person and such?"

Again, Gelderris hesitated before answering. But it seemed easier to discuss these matters in the bright light of morning. "If you ask me, yes," he said. "People say that Malkallam has returned to Grimsdell Wood."

"Malkallam?" Will repeated.

"A Black Artist. A sorcerer. One of the worst kind, apparently. He had a feud with Syron's ancestor, going back a hundred years…"

"A hundred years?" Will repeated, edging his voice with disbelief. "How long does a sorcerer live, anyway?"

Gelderris raised an admonishing finger. "Don't be too quick to disbelieve," he said. "Nobody knows how long sorcerers can live. I'd say it's pretty much up to the sorcerer himself. But these goings-on in Grimsdell don't have any other explanation. Nor does Lord Syron's strange sickness. Stories go that it was exactly the same sickness struck down his ancestor when he fought with Malkallam."

"So if this Malkallam is in Grimsdell Wood, why doesn't someone from Macindaw take a few soldiers in and give him a seeing to?" Will asked. "Somebody must have taken charge if Syron's incapable?"

"You don't just march into Grimsdell Wood, Will Barton. It's a tangle of trees and undergrowth in there, with paths that twist and turn on themselves and branches above you so thick you only see the sun at noon. There's the mere as well. Step in that and you'll sink to the bottom and never be seen again."

Will considered that fact for a few moments. The tavern keeper was turning out to be a mine of information.

"So there's nobody in charge at Macindaw?" he said, and added, "That's a blow. I was hoping to winter there-at least a few weeks."

Gelderris pursed his lips. "Oh, you'll most likely find a position there. Syron's son has taken over the running of things. Strange cove he is, too," he added darkly. Will looked up quickly.

"Strange, you say?" he prompted, and Gelderris nodded emphatically.

"There are those who say he might even be behind his father's illness. He's very withdrawn, very mysterious. Wears a black robe like a monk, although he's no man of the church. A scholar, he calls himself. But what does he study, I want to know."

"You think he might be this…" Will hesitated, seeming to search for the name, although he knew it well enough. "Malkallam?" he concluded. Gelderris looked a little uncomfortable now that he had been asked point-blank to make a statement one way or the other. He shifted in his seat.

"I'm not saying that it's so," he said finally. "But I'm saying I wouldn't be too surprised if it were. Word has it that Orman spends all his time in his tower room, studying books and old scrolls that he's got his hands on. He may be lord of Macindaw, but he's no leader of men-no warrior. Thankfully, Sir Keren is there to look after that side of things."

Will raised an eyebrow at the new name. Gelderris needed no further prompting.

"Syron's nephew-Orman's cousin. He's a fine warrior-some years younger than Orman but a natural leader and popular with the men-at-arms. I often thought that perhaps Lord Syron would have preferred it if Keren were his son, rather than Orman."

"This close to the Picta border, you'd have need of a good warrior in the castle," Will mused, and the tavern keeper nodded assent.

"That's a fact. There's more than one of us is glad Keren is there. If the Scotti ever got wind that a weak leader like Orman was in charge, we'd all be wearing kilts and eating haggis before the month was out."

Will rose and stretched. "Ah well, it's all politics and that's beyond a simple man like myself. As long as I can get a bed and lodging at Orman's castle and make a little money to see me on my way, I'll be content. But tonight, of course, I'll spend in your castle."

Cullum seemed content with the news. He gestured to the coffeepot warming by the fire.

"Fine by me. Want some more coffee while it's fresh?"

Good intentions flew out the window. Will reflected that gathering intelligence was thirsty work. He picked up his mug.

"Why not?" he said.