The Sorcerer of the North

20

Will slept badly for the rest of the night, as was to be expected. His sleep was patchy and uneven, populated by dreams of the towering Night Warrior. It was only toward dawn that he managed to fall into a deep sleep and inevitably, shortly after he had, he was woken by the early morning sounds of the castle rising.

He lay for a moment on the bed, wondering if he really had seen and heard the horrific figure the night before. For a minute or two, his brain muddled by sleep, he thought it might have been a nightmare. He rose, stretching stiff limbs and muscles, realizing that his entire body had been tensed as he slept. The dog, chin on paws, belly down on the warm flagstones by the embers of the fire, cocked her ears at him and thumped her tail twice in greeting.

"It's all right for you," he said morosely. "You have no idea how terrifying that was last night." He opened the shutters and looked out at the new day. It was bright and sunny, the morning light glistening off the snow-covered countryside surrounding Macindaw. Training and discipline demanded that he should take time to review the events of the night before while they were fresh in his mind, trying to find some logical explanation for them. After ten minutes' analysis, he came to the reluctant conclusion that he had seen the figure. He had heard its voice. And he had been terrified as never before.

The light of day brought no logical explanation, no physical solution. There was something terrible in Grimsdell Wood. He let out a long sigh. He thought again of Halt's briefing, and his opinion that, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, there was an explanation for such phenomena.

"I suppose I'm going to have to go back and find out what it is," Will said quietly.

Not surprisingly, he had little appetite when he went for breakfast in the dining hall. But he managed to cram down a couple of warm rolls, smearing them with a preserve made from raspberries, and by the time he was halfway through his second cup of coffee his jangled nerves were almost back in place. Not looking for company, he sat alone at one of the long tables in the hall, staying away from the small groups that clustered together, chatting quietly over their breakfast. It was there that the page found him.

"Jongleur?" he said coolly. He was old for a page. He must have been in his early forties, which meant he had found no favor at all in the eyes of his superiors. The majority of young boys employed as pages in a castle moved on to positions as squires or assistants to the Craftmasters. Those who didn't were usually lazy, truculent or stupid. Or all three. His next statement decided Will that the fourth option was the correct one. As he glanced up from his coffee cup, the page continued.

"See Lord Orman at ten of the clock."

He turned and walked away. For a moment, Will was tempted to call the page back and give him a dressing down for his lack of manners. As a Ranger, he was used to being treated with respect.

Then he realized that he wasn't a Ranger at the moment. He was a jongleur. Ruefully, he decided that Orman's undisguised contempt for country minstrels must have rubbed off on some of his staff.

There was a water clock in the dining hall and he saw that he had over an hour before his interview with Orman. He wondered briefly why the lord of the castle wanted to see him. His immediate thought was that it had something to do with the events in Grimsdell Wood, but then he realized that this was probably his imagination working overtime, since Grimsdell was foremost in his mind.

More likely, he thought, Orman wanted to see him about the earlier scene with his cousin Keren. The more he considered it, the more he felt that was the case. Orman had been embarrassed in front of the entire assembly. Chances were he would be ready to take out his anger on Will, and he faced the prospect philosophically. There was nothing he could do about it, so there was no point worrying about it. But he realized that he would have to tread a careful path in the future. There was no point in alienating the castle lord, no matter how unpleasant he might be.

He passed the time in the castle's small library, situated in one of the corner towers, hunting through the dusty shelves of books and scrolls to see if there were any references in local histories to the Night Warrior, and looking at random for volumes on sorcery and spells. On both counts, he came up empty-handed. There was only one small volume on sorcery, although he noticed several empty spaces in the shelves beside it. And the few sketchy accounts of local history that he found held no mention of any Night Warrior. Frustrated and distracted by the memory of his reaction in the wood the night before, he made his way to Lord Orman's suite of rooms, on the fourth floor of the keep tower.

Orman's secretary, a small man with a bald head except for tufts of white hair above either ear, looked up as he entered the anteroom. He reminded Will of a bald squirrel, his head moving quickly from side to side, as if to see Will better.

"The Lord Orman wanted to see me," he said briefly. He saw no reason to introduce himself to the secretary.

"Aaah yes, yes, the jongleur, aren't you? Come this way then. Lord Orman is free at the moment."

He rose from behind a table that was laden with paperwork, half-unrolled scrolls and thick ledgers, and knocked on the massive door that led to Orman's chamber. From the other side, Will heard the thin, nasal voice reply.

"Come."

Gesturing for Will to follow, the secretary opened the door and entered. Orman was by the window, looking out at the view of the castle yard below. It was a large room, lit even in daylight by candles and oil lanterns placed at strategic points. A fire in one corner heated the room, which was lined with shelves of books and heavy wooden cabinets. One of these was open and Will saw a display of scrolls inside. Orman had a reputation as a scholar, he thought. His room certainly seemed to reflect it.

"The jongleur, my lord," said the secretary, indicating Will. Orman turned away from the window and studied Will for several seconds without speaking.

"That will be all, Xander," he said, and the secretary bowed and quietly left, closing the door behind him. Orman, still studying Will through unblinking eyes, sat at a table beside the window. There were two other chairs at the table but he made no sign for Will to take one, so he remained standing. He could feel the color mounting in his neck and face at the castle lord's arrogant treatment. Forcing himself to look casual, Will looked away from Orman, allowing his gaze to wander around the room, taking in the stacks of open books and papers on the huge desk against an inner wall.

"My cousin Keren is a disruptive influence," Orman said finally. "You would do well to remember that in the future."

Will said nothing, but bowed in acquiescence. So his prediction had been right. Orman seemed to expect no reply and went on.

"It's easy to be 'popular' when you have no responsibilities, of course. And there are those in this castle who would like to see Keren in charge…" He hesitated and Will had the strange feeling that the other man almost expected him to comment. Still, he held his peace.

"But he is not," Orman continued. "I am in authority here. No one else. Is that understood?"

The last few words were almost spat out, with an intensity that surprised Will. A little taken aback, he met the hot, angry gaze of the other man and bowed.

"Of course, my lord," he replied. Orman nodded once or twice, then rose from his chair and began to pace the room.

"Then mind your manners in the future, jongleur. I will be treated with the respect that my position demands. I may be only the temporary lord of this castle but I will not be undermined by you or Keren. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Lord Orman," Will said evenly. He was puzzled. He had the strange feeling that, in spite of his anger, Orman seemed to be almost pleading for respect and recognition.

Orman paused in his pacing and took a deep breath.

"Very well. That said, I realize it is not your fault that you fail to live up to the standards that I consider should be the norm for a jongleur. Country ditties and folk songs are all very well, but they are no substitute for the classics. The kind of simplistic doggerel you sing merely stultifies the minds of the common people. I believe it is a performer's role to lift people. To elevate their perceptions. To expose them to a greatness beyond their own limited horizons."

He stopped, looked at Will and shook his head slightly. Will was in no doubt that Orman found his potential for elevation sadly lacking. He bowed again.

"I regret that I am a simple entertainer, my lord," he said. Orman nodded sourly.

"With the emphasis on simple, I'm afraid," he said.

Head lowered, Will felt his cheeks beginning to flush. Get over it, he told himself. If you plan to be a jongleur, you have to develop a thick skin for criticism. He breathed deeply a few times, regaining control of himself. Orman watched him curiously. The barb had been intentional, Will realized. The castle lord wanted to see how he might respond.

"And yet," Orman said, in almost grudging recognition, "the instrument you play is an uncommonly good one. It's not a Gilperon, by any chance, is it?"

"It's a mandola," Will began his usual response. "It has eight strings, tuned in…" He got no further.

"I know it's a mandola, for pity's sake!" Orman interrupted him. "I was asking if it were made by Axel Gilperon, probably the kingdom's foremost luthier. I would have thought that any professional musician would have heard of him. Even you."

It was a bad slip, Will realized. He tried to cover as best he could.

"My apologies, my lord. I misheard you. My instrument was made for me by a local craftsman in the south, but he is well known for copying the style of the master. Naturally, a poor country musician like myself could never afford a real Gilperon."

He laughed in a self-deprecating way, but Orman continued to stare at him, suspicion all too evident in his gaze. There was an awkward silence, finally broken by a tapping at the door.

"What?" Orman demanded angrily, and the door opened just far enough for his secretary to peer nervously into the room.

"Your pardon, Lord Orman," he said, "but the Lady Gwendolyn of Amarle has arrived and insists on seeing you."

Orman scowled. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

Xander opened the door a fraction wider, making covert gestures toward the anteroom behind him. "She's here, my lord," he said, keeping his voice as low as possible. Orman made an ill-tempered gesture, realizing that the visiting noblewoman was already in his anteroom.

"Very well, show her in," he said. He glanced at Will, who had moved toward the door. "You wait. I'm not finished with you yet."

Xander nodded gratefully and withdrew. A few seconds later, he opened the door wide and entered, standing to one side as he ushered in the new arrival.

"Lord Orman, may I present Lady Gwendolyn of Amarle." He bowed low as the lady entered the room. Blond, tall and beautiful, she was dressed in an exquisite sea-green silk gown and carried herself with the unconscious dignity and grace of a born noble. Will suppressed an exclamation of surprise.

Lady Gwendolyn of Amarle was Alyss.