The Magestone

27 Kasarian—events at Lormt (20th and 21st days, Moon of the Knife/21st and 22nd Days, Month of the Ice Dragon)

When I listened to the reading of the message enspelled in the jewel, I had to bite back a cry of denial at the revelation that Mereth had been sired by Elsenar upon a Dales female named Veronda. Krevonel, the Foresire of my own Line, had been sired a thousand years previously by Elsenar. We had suspected earlier that Mereth had to possess some of Elsenar’s blood, however attenuated, because of her acceptance under the stricture of his postern spell. Her Line’s claim to the jewel also argued in favor of some kinship linkage . . . but by his ghastly magic, Elsenar was not just Mereth’s distant kin. He was her very sire! I had to accept the incredible; Mereth and I belonged to the same direct Line. That recognition took my breath away.

With an effort, I forced my attention back to the final words of Elsenar’s message. I had to admire his devious reasoning and foresight in bespelling Mereth to be mute, but he had not been able to control what subsequently befell his jewel. Alizon’s seizure of the stone during the Dales war had ironically thwarted Elsenar’s original plans for his timely release.

I did not express aloud my profound doubts that Elsenar could still be alive and capable of being rescued. I had to concede, however, that reason could not always be relied upon when magic reared its vile head.

When Morfew complained that we had talked well past the common hour for supping, the Wise Woman abruptly commanded us all to leave the bedchamber so that Mereth could rest.

I welcomed the interruption, for I needed time to plan and reflect. After stopping by Lormt’s dining hall, I withdrew to my chamber, carrying with me a loaf of bread, some deplorable gruel, and a flask of ale.

The problem of Elsenar burned in my mind. The opportunity appeared irresistibly tempting: if I could somehow contrive to free the ancient mage by restoring to him his jewel, then Elsenar should grant abundant rewards to me as his rescuer. On the other hand, the prospect of facing a living mage, especially one of such notorious reputation, was unspeakably horrid. What could I do to defend myself against the very monster present at Alizon’s dawning and personally responsible for the Original Betrayal? Instead of rewarding me for freeing him, Elsenar might blast me on the spot . . . or far worse, return to Alizon by his sorceries and seize total control of the land. How could a mortal man stand against such unnatural Power? And yet . . . taking risks had always been the Alizonian way, and potential gains had to be balanced against only possible threats that might never materialize.

Constrained by the cramped dimensions of my bedchamber, I managed sufficient exercise to verify that my swordsmanship had been unimpaired by my slight injuries. I then blew out the candles and lay down. Feeling somewhat weary from the day’s exertions, I slept dreamlessly. It was midmorning of the next day before the Wise Woman allowed us to gather again in Mereth’s bedchamber. Somewhat restored by her rest, Mereth appeared less haggard. She had already drawn a crude map to show us where lay the ruins beneath which she believed Elsenar had been trapped. She had also drafted letters for me to carry to certain Sulcar ship masters at Etsport, Estcarp’s chief port since the destruction of Gorm.

I was examining Mereth’s map when yet another of Lormt’s host of elderly males arrived at the door. Although his ruddy skin had lightened with age, as had his hair, he was evidently a Dalesman. Morfew hailed him as Irvil, the kinship scholar Ouen had named to us. It was a telling indication of the lack of proper organization at Lormt that Irvil had been totally unaware of Mereth’s presence within the citadel. He at once erupted in a spate of Dales speech which was far too rapid for me to comprehend more than a few scattered words.

Mereth seemed outwardly unaffected, but I noticed a tear spilled down her cheek. She scrubbed it away with her sleeve, and wrote a private greeting to her countryman on her slate.

After reading it, Irvil turned to me and said in Estcarpian, “I am told that you have urgent need to learn the speech of the Dales. I never thought to speak to an Alizonder . . . but Master Ouen requests that I talk with you.”

Irvil was easily old enough to be my sire’s sire, which meant he likely harbored ill feelings from the time of the war. I bowed to him, and touched my Line badge. “I would not impose upon you if the need were not urgent,” I said. “Both Alizon and Estcarp face a common threat which, if unchecked, would likely endanger your Dales. My proposed voyage to the Dales may assuage that threat. I thank you for your forbearance and assistance.” Irvil’s grim expression eased, as if my words had mollified him.

Mereth thrust her slate at him, and he read aloud, “‘We shall divide our time between instruction in both speech and trade, since Kasarian must master the rudiments of each.’ ”

Morfew smiled. “Pray do not entirely submerge your Alizonian accent, young man,” he advised me. “You must remember that the only Dales speech you would have learned as a pup would have come from your mother; until you escaped into Estcarp three years ago, you would have spoken chiefly Alizonian.”

Nolar rose and advanced toward me. “I claim an hour of your time to dye your hair. Shall we attempt the transformation this afternoon? I must consult with Master Pruett concerning the proportions for the herbal mixture. I will call for you when my preparations are complete.”

Duratan moved to accompany his mate. “It is just as well,” he remarked at the doorway, “that you can admit to an Alizonian father, since otherwise your pretense would be ruined every time you opened your mouth.”

“May you swiftly impart the knowledge that is required,” Ouen exhorted Mereth, Irvil, and me. “Pray inform me if I may provide any aid. All of Lormt’s facilities are at your disposal.”

Thus began a daunting week of constant application. Morning, noon, and evening, I listened, and wrote under Mereth’s and Irvil’s demanding tutelage. Bearing Morfew’s warning in mind, I did not attempt perfect mimicry of the sounds of the Dales speech. In truth, the tones were difficult to match, being softer and quite different to the ear from Alizonian.

As she had promised, Duratan’s mate marched me to her lair later that first afternoon. She had me sit upon a stool beside a stone basin in which she stirred an acrid fluid. After wetting my hair with water, she poured cup after cup of the odoriferous rinse over my head—nor did she neglect to darken my eyebrows, using a soft brush dipped in the dye. Both of us were well-soaked by the time she pronounced me possibly presentable. She warned me that once-set, the dye would not fade for a long time. It would not do for the color to lapse during the sea voyage. I must confess that I started at the sight of my image reflected in a silver tray. For an unsettling instant, I thought I was beholding a stranger. No baron would have allowed such a dark-haired, disreputable ruffian into his living quarters as a guest . . . but Duratan’s mate smiled at me, and said I made a barely passable halfling.

Between our strenuous study meetings, Mereth composed additional letters to be given to her kinsmen and other traders in the Dales once I landed at Vennesport. We pored over maps together for hours while she supplied me with descriptions of the land I must traverse and the likely arrangements that must be made for me to secure supplies and hire suitable horses.

The First Whelping Moon commenced while we labored. Mereth termed it the Month of the Snow Bird, and indeed I had seldom seen heavier snows than those burdening the mountain fastnesses surrounding Lormt.

I was soon beset by Lormt’s chief provisioner, a bald, talkative Estcarpian named Wessell, who fell upon me like a yammering hound pup. He proved to be surprisingly efficient, however, in choosing and assembling the travel gear I required. He also presented me with a small box of lamantine wood, which he praised highly for preserving delicate foodstuffs during long journeys. We had seized a few such examples as Dales booty, but I had not before possessed a sample of that dark gray-brown close-grained wood. Mereth wrote that it was prized for making bottles which could keep water sweet for many days, as well as containers which would indefinitely keep fresh the best journeycakes—those baked with fruit or meat bits. No Dalesman knew, she added, where to find the trees from which the wood could be cut, but precious objects made of worked lamantine wood were rarely found in the Waste. My trader’s quest, guided by the old map, would be considered dangerous, but not so extraordinary as to arouse undue notice.

By the Third Day of the First Whelping Moon, I was ready to depart upon my first stage of travel—the thirty or more leagues from Lormt to Es City. One of Lormt’s younger scholars—still old enough to be my sire—agreed to accompany me as far as Es City. It was necessary to leave behind at Lormt all of my baronial trappings, including my signet ring. I felt perilously vulnerable with just the single belt dagger which the Lormt folk insisted was the customary defensive weapon for a traveling merchant. The notion of spending a moon or more—depending upon the weather—aboard a ship manned by Alizon’s deadly Sulcar foes with only one inadequate blade at my belt was maddening. I reminded myself that I was ostensibly a trader’s apprentice, and as such, I must comply with their practices.

Gathering up my heavy outer cloak, I entered Mereth’s bedchamber to collect Elsenar’s jewel. She was sitting up in the bed, and nodded approvingly as she surveyed me. She wrote on her slate for me to read, “Our joint efforts have succeeded. You truly present the semblance of an apprentice trader. Take with you now Elsenar’s legacy, together with my well-wishings for a fair journey.” She held out to me the glittering jewel, which I secured in the innermost pocket of my tunic. At that point, I did not care to wear the cursed object next to my skin. It was unsettling enough having to travel with it on my person. Would it again afflict my dreams as it had in Alizon? I thrust away the unwelcome thought.

“I thank you doubly, Lady,” I said, “for both your trust and your farewell. With the aid of your map, I shall find the ensorcelled ruins and restore this mighty stone to our Foresire.” I bowed to her, and my hand moved in habitual salute to the bare cloth of my tunic, where my Line badge should have been sewn.

Mereth almost smiled. “May the Flame guard you, Outlander,” she wrote, much to my puzzlement.

I bowed again, and hurried down the stairs toward the horses waiting in the windswept courtyard.