The Magestone

18 Mereth—events at Lormt, then at Krevonel Castle (20th Day, Month of the Ice Dragon/19th Day, Moon of the Knife)

“I forced myself to approach Kasarian and put my arms around his slender waist. He was apparently not equally repelled by me, for he seized me so tightly that I could scarcely breathe. A shattering thought struck me—no male had hugged me so fervently since my beloved Doubt, achingly long years ago. That I should have to submit to this indignity from an Alizonder was almost more than I could bear, but even worse lay ahead.

I clung frantically to Kasarian, the only solid, warm object in a pitch-black, freezing, roaring chaos. I could feel his heart hammering through his tunic, but he held me unflinchingly. I do not know whether I dared to breathe, or if one could breathe in that awful space. Just as instantly as we had been afflicted, we emerged into another stone-floored chamber. Our only light source was the postern opening itself, and as it rapidly diminished, then vanished, we were left in complete darkness.

“Can you stand, lady?” Kasarian’s voice came from near my ear. He had eased his enveloping clasp so that my feet were again firmly on the floor, but he kept one arm around my shoulders. “She cannot speak,” he muttered to himself in Alizonian, then added to me, “Squeeze my hand if you can stand unaided.”

I felt for his hand, and pressed it. I was somewhat lightheaded, as if feverish or only half awake, but I believed I could hold myself upright if I did not try to move.

Kasarian released me. Shortly afterward, I heard a scraping sound nearby. Abruptly, I could see that he had struck a spark with his tinderbox, and was squatting to kindle a burnt-out torch, possibly the one he had left behind when he came to Lormt. The flickering torchlight disclosed a bare, windowless room with only one massive door. I leaned upon my staff while my dizziness receded.

“Before we leave this chamber,” Kasarian warned, “we must plan carefully. It would be best for you to be seen by the fewest possible people. I cannot show myself here without being at once attended by Gennard, who has been my body servant since I was whelped. Having previously served my sire’s littermate, he is the sole person at Krevonel Castle who knows Volorian by sight. I shall tell him that you are a baron engaged upon a secret visit to the City; he will ask no prying questions. We can also rely totally upon Bodrik, my castellan, who came to Krevonel five years ago from our coastal estates. Yes, those two shall be the pair to serve us. Do not be disturbed by the scar on Bodrik’s face—he was wounded two years ago in a skirmish with brigands from Karsten.” Kasarian paused, then added, “Bodrik has often clashed with Lursk, Gurborian’s Master of Arms. The two of them preserve a wary truce while both Gurborian and I are in the City. I shall entrust the dispatch of Volorian’s message to Bodrik. He will contrive to achieve our desired ends: secure delivery of Morfew’s summons into Gurborian’s hands, while avoiding unwelcome attention by outside observers.”

I withdrew my slate and chalk from an inner pocket of my cloak. Limited both by the slate’s small available surface and my store of Alizonian, I strove to compress my host of questions into the briefest form. I wrote, “Will not your servants seek our horses?”

Kasarian read my words, and showed his teeth in a wolfish smile. “I rejoice, lady, that our rough transit has not addled your wits,” he said. “If we are to assert the secretive nature of your baronial mission to the City, then we should not arrive conspicuously, with a mounted troop. As the Master of Krevonel Castle, I alone know and use the many secret passages allowing entrance and exit without notice by friend or foe. My staff will assume that we used such a passage—which, after a most abnormal fashion, we did.” He fell silent for a moment, than stated, “You will have to inspect my hounds; no visiting baron, most especially Volorian, would fail to do so. Have you ever had occasion to see or touch one of our hounds?”

I clutched my slate tightly to prevent him from seeing the tremor that pulsed through my hands. “From distance,” I finally managed to write, “only twice, during war.” I shuddered inwardly at the memory of those two awful events.

During the early years of the war in the Dales, the Alizonder invaders had brought with them a number of ravening packs of their namesake beasts, which they loosed upon our defenders. The Alizonders’ hounds were like no dogs such as those we knew and employed ourselves for hunting or warfare. From Elsenar’s journal, I now knew that the original hounds had come through a mage’s Gate with the first Alizonders. All we of the embattled Dales had known was revulsion and terror for the lean, white creatures that savagely ran down our fleeing men, women, and children. Once the blessed Sulcars succeeded in harrying and intercepting Alizon’s supply ships, the barons gradually withdrew their precious hounds as too valuable to be slain at sea or by our darts or swords. Volorian, I recalled, was supposed to be a noted breeder of the vile creatures. I would have to compel myself to view Kasarian’s hounds.

Staring at me speculatively, Kasarian must have sensed my reluctance. “I shall fetch to you a recent pup from my prize bitch,” he declared. “Before you encounter the entire pack, we must determine how your scent affects them. Come, let us repair to an upper chamber. I have much to tell you while we dispatch and wait for Gurborian’s reply to our message.” He thrust his key into the great lock, and swung back the door.

We proceeded through corridors and up stairs whose dusty surfaces had recently been disturbed by the marks of only one pair of boots. Unlike the sober gray stones of Lormt, Krevonel Castle’s stones were a glistening buff-brown color, but the scale of the Alizonders’ construction was equally impressive. I noted a strange similarity between these underground ways and those beneath Lormt . . . until we gained the more habitable upper levels. The farther we climbed, the more sumptuous the decorations and furnishings became. Possibly because of their own physical paleness, the Alizonders seemed to adorn their living quarters with brilliant—even jarringly bright—colors.

Twice, far ahead of us in the corridors, I glimpsed white-haired figures clad in dark blue livery, but as soon as they noticed our approach, they scurried out of sight around the next corner or through the nearest door. One figure alone did not retreat, but marched purposefully across a vast reception hall to meet us. He was a tall, gaunt, older Alizonder, whose pale blue eyes reminded me of Morfew.

Kasarian nodded brusquely to the man, as if he had expected to encounter him. “You will serve our guest and me in the north tower room, Gennard. Send for Bodrik to meet us there at once.”

As he bowed to Kasarian, Gennard touched his House badge.

“Welcome back, Master.” He turned toward me, repeating the bow and the gesture. “Krevonel Castle welcomes you, Worthy Baron,” he said in a voice neither subservient nor fearful. If he had served Kasarian since the baron’s childhood, I assumed that he must be a capable survivor . . . and that he felt secure in his position.

I imitated Kasarian’s nod, and strode after him, for he had already moved toward a distant door. We climbed yet more stairs. I was deeply relieved when Kasarian finally entered a room and offered me an ornate chair. We had scarcely seated ourselves before a different Alizonder appeared at the open door.

“Enter, Bodrik,” Kasarian invited, and the man he had described to me as his castellan approached us.

Somehow, I had expected that all Alizonders would look alike. So far, Kasarian’s castle staff did share the same distinctively pale hair and skin, and they were all outfitted in the same neat blue livery ornamented with white piping and braid. When viewed face to face, however, the individual Alizonders appeared as different as any two Dalesmen would. Bodrik’s features were not as finely cut as Kasarian’s, and he was stockier and broader of shoulder than his master. His eyes were a clear green, like the early leaves of spring, but what drew my gaze was the livid scar that branded a diagonal slash from above his left eyebrow across the bridge of his nose, extending down his right cheek.

Touching his House badge, Bodrik bowed to Kasarian. “Krevonel welcomes your return, Master,” he said in rumbling tones, the growl of his Alizonian more pronounced than Gennard’s or Kasarian’s.

“Krevonel is honored by the arrival of this Worthy Baron,” Kasarian proclaimed, nodding deferentially toward me. “His name and presence, however, must not be revealed to outsiders, since his purpose in the City must be achieved in utmost secrecy. He has traveled a far distance, despite a winter ague that has presently quenched his voice. He will make known his orders to you in writing.”

As Bodrik bowed to me, he said, “I am yours to command, Worthy Baron.”

“The Baron’s first command is that you convey a private message to Baron Gurborian,” Kasarian said, holding out the leather-wrapped packet containing Morfew’s cunningly phrased summons. “Take this at once to Lursk, for his immediate delivery into Gurborian’s hand. We require an equally discreet reply. Depending upon the nature of Gurborian’s response, I shall have further instructions for you.”

“It shall be accomplished, Master. Lursk is drinking today at the Hooded Crow. Your message will be in Baron Gurborian’s hand within the hour.” Bodrik bowed again to each of us, then hastened from the room.

Gennard must have been watching for Bodrik’s departure, for he entered right away, bearing a carved wooden tray crowded with flagons, covered dishes, and open containers. With the ease of long practice, he swiftly set out an array of food and drink on a side table. He would have commenced to serve us, but Kasarian held up his hand.

“We shall not require you to serve,” Kasarian said. “I prefer that you attend to a different task. In our haste to reach the City, we did not encumber ourselves with baggage. During his guesting with us, the Baron therefore relies upon our wardrobe for his needs.”

Gennard surveyed me. “If the Worthy Baron will allow me, I can fetch to his guest chamber a selection of robes from your sire’s store, Master.”

“An excellent idea,” Kasarian approved. “He is much the same size as Baron Oralian. Bring the clothing and suitable boots to the chamber next to mine. We shall repair thither after we have eaten and conferred. Be sure also to fetch a supply of writing chalk. The Baron’s voice has been temporarily silenced by an ague, and he must write his orders upon a slate that he has brought with him.”

“As you command, Master . . . Worthy Baron.” Gennard bowed to us both and withdrew.

Kasarian moved a table between our chairs, and began to transfer the dishes. “I do not permit the affairs of Krevonel Castle to be conducted in the lavish fashion favored by some other barons,” he remarked. “I became accustomed to the simpler fare and style of service provided at Volorian’s estates. Now that I am Master of Krevonel, I maintain that style, rather than indulge in pointless rounds of banqueting.” He carefully poured a dark red liquid into a silver flagon, then paused before offering me the cup. “I must caution you,” he advised, “about this bloodwine of ours. We have never allowed any of it to be taken beyond Alizon’s borders; it is restricted solely for baronial use. I suggest that you sample it . . . sparingly, until you fully appreciate its character.”

I accepted the flagon warily. In my years of trading experience, I had tasted many vintages, some thin and sour, others strong and heady. This Alizonian wine had a pronounced bouquet, somewhat acrid, but not offensive. I took a very small sip. It tasted like no other wine I knew—at the same time, both strangely sweet and salty. As soon as I swallowed, I felt it bite like a potent, long-fermented cider. I set the flagon on the table, taking a deep breath to clear my vision. Kasarian was watching me over the rim of his goblet. I fancied I could detect a certain glint of amusement in his eyes. I wrote firmly on my slate, “Best I not drink much of this. Makes eyes water.”

Kasarian nodded, evidently entertained by my reaction. “I shall have to serve bloodwine to Gurborian and Gratch when they come,” he said. “We can excuse your failure to join us as occasioned by your loss of taste due to that same deplorable ague that has taken your voice. To accompany this meal, try this cordial made from white hedgeberries—much blander, yet thirst quenching.”

As he served each dish, Kasarian described it for me, and tasted a sample himself. I could not help recalling that both he and Duratan had cited the Alizonders’ penchant for poisoning one another. Doubtless Kasarian was attempting to reassure me of the wholesomeness of his viands. I chose to eat items familiar to me—some poached fish, a leg of wild moorhen, rabbit in pastry, some cheeses. Kasarian urged me to taste a dish of what appeared to be steamed roots served with a cream sauce. He said it was another Alizonian speciality, never offered to outsiders. I found it so highly spiced that I doubted that many outsiders would desire to eat it, but I was spared from having to write my opinion of the dish, since he devoted his attention to slicing a glazed fruit confection. He would have pressed further dishes upon me, but I hastily wrote that I could eat no more.

Kasarian passed me a silver bowl containing moistened cloths so that we might wipe our hands. “I shall leave you briefly now,” he announced, pushing back his chair, “to fetch the hound pup. Gennard may return to clear away our finished meal. If his presence perturbs you, you can survey the City from our windows until he leaves.”

As Kasarian had predicted, soon after he left the room, Gennard did come back. He bowed to me, then started stacking the dishes on his tray. I nodded to him in what I hoped was an acceptably dismissive baronial style, and walked to one of the slit windows to look out upon the city of my enemies.

Because of the winter cold, heavy wooden shutters padded with wool had been secured across the windows. I unlatched one panel and swung it back. The sunlight was impeded by a layer of high clouds, so that my first view of Alizon City was appropriately drained of color. I was dismayed to behold the extent of the sprawling settlement. Ranks of roofs crowded one against another as far as the eye could see. From its commanding perch on an elevated rocky ridge dominating all other buildings loomed a monstrous fortress that had to be Alizon Castle, seat of the infamous Lord Baron. High up as I was in the Krevonel Castle’s tower, I could see the glitter of metal flashing from the helmets of the sentries patrolling the fortress walls.

The frigid draft through the open window numbed my face, but I was already chilled from within. The realization that I, a lone Daleswoman, should be standing in clear sight of the very Kennels of the Hounds of Alizon pierced me like a knife thrust. I was aghast when tears I could not feel because of the cold suddenly splashed down on my sleeve. I contrived, while closing and fastening the shutter, to rub a fold of my cloak around my face. I did not turn around until I heard Gennard close the door as he left the room. I chided myself severely. Loneliness and weariness could not excuse so dangerous a lapse. I doubted that Alizonder barons often indulged in tears—unless they were writhing in poisoned agony.

The door opened abruptly, and Kasarian entered, carrying a squirming white bundle in his arms. I hastened to sit on a nearby bench so that he could place the horrid creature in my lap. It was an extremely young beast, but already long of leg and well-muscled for the chase. I tried not to disclose my repugnance, but settled the hound with my gloved hands.

I was surprised by the softness of its short white fur. Its head was very narrow, with keen yellow eyes deep-set above a pointed, questing nose. Its curiously flared ears folded back flat against its skull except when they pricked erect to listen. The needle-sharp claws, like those of a cat, could retract into the foot pads; I soon discovered that its teeth were even sharper when it nipped me even through Mistress Bethalie’s gloves. Kasarian’s hands, I saw, also exhibited fresh toothmarks and scratches.

He observed my gaze, and laughed—the first time that I had heard him laugh. I suppose I had expected Alizonders to bark like their wretched hounds, but Kasarian’s laugh was a natural sound of genuine pleasure.

“Exceptional spirit!” Kasarian exclaimed, wiping away a streak of blood from his wrist. “Both his sire and dam are fine beasts, as this one will be in time. Due to the silver in his coat, I call him ‘Moonbeam.’ ” He rubbed his fingers gently behind its ears, and the beast twisted its muzzle around to lick his hand.

I was astonished. Could these murderous hounds actually inspire affection? Was an Alizonder capable of such feelings?

Kasarian compounded my surprise by assuming an uncharacteristically defensive manner. “Few other barons name their hounds,” he conceded, “but I have found that some hounds respond to training more energetically when singled out. Volorian introduced me to the practice, for he always named his primary hounds, the better to maintain correct breeding records. While they are pups, of course, hounds are more amenable to handling. Moonbeam clearly welcomes your attentions.”

I realized that I had unconsciously begun to stroke the creature, and to my amazement, although the sound it made was rougher and more grating, it purred, almost like a cat.

Rising from his crouching position by my feet, Kasarian reverted to his more usual arrogant manner. “I rejoice that your scent does not infuriate Moonbeam,” he said. “Since you have handled him, his scent will cling to you, which should aid in your acceptance by the adult pack. Let us now restore Moonbeam to the Kennels.”

As we started toward the door, Gennard appeared. “I have placed a selection of Baron Oralian’s clothing in the chamber adjoining yours, Master,” he reported.

“Having examined Moonbeam, the Worthy Baron presently desires to inspect the balance of my pack,” Kasarian declared. “We shall assess your choices upon our return from the Kennels.”

Long before we reached the Kennel area, I could hear the dreadful clamor of the hounds. Moonbeam whined excitedly from his perch in Kasarian’s arms. We descended several steep ramps, stopping only when our way was blocked by a heavy iron grill anchored firmly in the stones on either side of the passageway.

Kasarian called out, “Wolkor!”

A burly Alizonder hurried out of the shadows to unlock a hinged gate panel fitted at one side of the grill. “Moonbeam’s dam be sore vexed, Master,” he complained. “ ’Twas needful to double leash her.”

Kasarian shifted Moonbeam into the other man’s eagerly extended arms. “They shall be parted soon enough when he joins the training pack,” Kasarian said.

I followed close behind the pair of them through a narrow passage that opened out into a spacious courtyard. The Alizonder carrying Moonbeam darted aside beneath an archway leading back into the Kennels.

“Wolkor has served me as Hound Master for many years,” Kasarian observed to me. “I had to bribe his former master to secure his release, but I have found none better at tending whelping bitches. You can judge his prowess by the excellent condition of my pack.”

I do not know how I endured the next hour. Like most nursling animals, Moonbeam had possessed—to some limited extent—the attraction of vulnerable helplessness. To be forced now to survey the grown hounds with every appearance of approval made my flesh crawl.

Having restored Moonbeam to his mother’s custody, Wolkor paraded before me individuals, braces, triples, and surging packs of hounds. My worst memories from the Dales war rushed back into my mind as the thin-flanked, ghostly white bodies strained against their leashes, weaving their snake-like heads from side to side, snapping and snarling. Whenever Kasarian bellowed some encomium above the din, I nodded appreciatively. I had to believe that the hounds accepted me as an authentic Alizonder, for their vicious exuberance was not directed in any corporate attacks on me.

Finally, as I was beginning to feel giddy from the dust, noise, and peculiar odor of the hounds, Kasarian called to Wolkor, “We shall distract you from your duties no further. I look forward to the whelping!”

Taking my arm, Kasarian led me back through the twisting passageways into the castle. “You did very well, lady,” he murmured, when we were safely alone in one of the castle’s endless corridors. “Volorian himself could have looked no wiser—except he would have forcefully evaluated every hound. I had to explain your lack of voice. Wolkor is convinced that you are a famed hound breeder.” That obviously ridiculous assumption made Kasarian smile. “You may yet deceive Gurborian, lady—I begin to think that you may!”

Gennard was waiting for us outside an intricately carved door in one of the upper halls. The bedchamber within was regally appointed. On a wide table beside the canopied bed, Gennard had laid out a profusion of elegant cloaks, tunics, breeches, and soft leather boots.

With a low cry of recognition, Kasarian picked up a tunic of vivid green velvet, closely embroidered with gold thread. “I remember this,” he said slowly.

“Baron Oralian preferred that color,” Gennard remarked. “I thought that perhaps the Worthy Baron. . . .”

“Just so,” Kasarian interrupted. “We shall consider your selections. You may retire.”

Once Gennard had shut the door, Kasarian held out the tunic to me. “I was five when my sire last wore this, just before his murder,” he mused. “It is unlikely that Gurborian would recall it. Try it on, together with these proper boots.”

I was relieved that only outer garments had to be exchanged, since Kasarian showed no intention of leaving the room. The genuine Alizonian clothing and boots fit me passably well.

While I dressed, Kasarian had paced back and forth. When my outfitting was complete, he surveyed me critically and nodded. “I commend you,” he said. “No man could deny that in such garb, you present the appearance of a true baron.” Suddenly he tensed, motionless except for a deliberate inclination of his head. Had he been one of his appalling hounds, I thought, his ears would have pricked up, he was listening so intently. From immobility, he erupted into a blur of motion, snatching a knife from his belt with a horrid facility, and throwing it with the sureness of a striking snake toward a shadowy corner where the brocaded bedskirt brushed the carpet.

I flinched inadvertently at the thud of the knife’s impact, which coincided with a shrill animal cry of pain.

Kasarian bent to retrieve his knife, jerking it free from a fold of fabric, and disclosing the body of a large brown rat he had impaled against the wooden bedstead.

As he walked toward the door, Kasarian drew a strip of cloth from his tunic pocket to wipe his knife blade before resheathing it. Opening the door, he called Gennard, who appeared so quickly that he must have been waiting nearby. Kasarian gestured at the carcass and said, “An extra morsel for Wolkor’s evening feeding.” Gennard tidily grasped the dead rat by its tail, bowed to us, and withdrew.

Kasarian must have sensed my disquiet, for he surveyed me speculatively. “Have you no rats?” he asked.

I countered on my slate, “Have you no cats?”

He read my words, and smiled. “I have heard of such beasts,” he remarked. “They are kept, I believe, to hunt rats and mice within inhabited structures. Our hounds are superb ratters, but are far too high-spirited and valuable to be allowed to run loose indoors. They must be reserved for hunting truly significant game. For controlling vermin, we find that a ready knife is quite adequate . . . and the sport instructs the young, exercising the agility of both hand and eye.” His smile faded. “We may have scant time left before Bodrik returns with Gurborian’s reply. Pray sit down. You must be informed of certain matters before Gurborian and Gratch arrive—for I cannot believe that they will avoid falling into our trap.”