The Magestone

2 Kasarian of Krevonel—his account of the Baronial Assembly, Alizon City (Alizonian calendar: 5th Day, Moon of the Knife, the 1052nd Year Since the Betrayal)

I first saw the magic-cursed jewel when it was placed upon a silver chain around the neck of my sire’s murderer. It was the fifth day of the Moon of the Knife, in the One Thousand Fifty-second Year Since the Betrayal. All land barons of Alizon were required to attend the New Year’s Assembly for Presentation to the Lord Baron of that year’s noble whelps come-of-age.

I was standing not two spear lengths from the throne when Lord Baron Norandor raised his sword to amend the customary order of procedure. Except for his eyes, his face was concealed by the white-furred Lord Hound’s mask. He was a thinner man than the previous Lord Baron Mallandor, his dead littermate, so his voice echoed within the mask as he summoned Baron Gurborian to approach the throne.

Any matter concerning the murderer of my sire demanded my most wary attention. Gurborian’s schemes had for years permeated all of Alizon. Only the slowest-witted barons were unaware of his ambition to seize the Lord Hound’s mask for himself. Four moons before, I had received a private letter from Volorian, my sire’s elder littermate, complaining that Gurborian’s hirelings were prowling near our northeasterly estates. Could yet more threats against our Line be straining at Gurborian’s leashes?

When Gurborian had knelt before the throne, Norandor arose, sheathing his sword. “Worthy Gurborian of the Line Sired by Reptur,” the Lord Baron proclaimed, “my unfortunate littermate esteemed your counsel, as do I. For your able warfare in the Dales across the sea, as well as for other valued services, he allowed you to bear this singular token of Alizon’s approval.”

The torchlight in the Great Hall seemed to ignite a coal of blue fire in the Lord Baron’s outstretched hand. I edged forward to secure a better view. The light glittered from a jewel the size of a moor hen’s egg, and flared between Norandor’s fingers as he stooped to attach the stone to Gurborian’s baronial neck chain. “Now I, Norandor, Lord Baron of Alizon,” he continued, “reaffirm that approval by conferring upon you his notable prize, to be borne by you during your lifetime.”

A muffled snort erupted from the elderly baron standing next to me. “As soon as Gurborian’s dead,” he muttered, “Reptur’s pack had best hasten to return that bauble before the Lord Baron’s guard break in to claim it.”

I was the only one near enough to hear the remark, but I gave no sign that I had. I was fairly certain that old Baron Moragian was not a member of Gurborian’s current faction, but it was unwise to acknowledge such a comment where an unfriendly witness might notice. My outward detachment, I must admit, was also partly due to my attention’s being so closely focused on the jewel; never before had I seen such a stone. It continued to draw my eye even after Gurborian rejoined his coterie.

Our Line had no whelps to be presented that year. When Sherek, the new Master of Hounds, called for our pack’s representative, I strode forward to kneel before the throne. “In the stead of Baron Volorian,” I asserted, “I, Kasarian, appear for the Line Sired by Krevonel.” Norandor acknowledged me with a wave of his hand, and I withdrew to one side.

The Great Hall’s air seemed suddenly stifling, the torches far too bright. Within my head, the nagging pain that for some nights had frustrated my efforts to sleep redoubled its thumping. Desiring a temporary refuge away from the noisy throng, I slipped out into the corridor leading to the oldest part of Alizon Castle.

I knew of one particular room where I was unlikely to be disturbed. The ancient mosaic designs on its walls and floor were similar to those in one room in my own castle here in the City. I plucked a torch from a hall sconce to carry with me, but torches within the mosaic room had already been kindled by the servants.

Behind the pierced stone screen along one side of the chamber was a long bench probably used by serving slaves in times past when the room was more frequented. Due to winter drafts, a large tapestry had been hung across the room side of the screen, but it was threadbare in spots. If a person behind the screen chose his vantage point with care, he could see quite well into the main chamber. I had not intended to spy unseen, but I had only just sat down on the bench when I heard the scrape of boots entering the main room.

There were two intruders—one whose voice I did not recognize, but the other voice was Gurborian’s. I moved very quietly to obtain a glimpse of them through the tapestry fabric. The second man was Gratch of Gorm, Gurborian’s prime henchman. He had been named in Volorian’s letter as one of those prying and poking about in the mountains near our estates. From their first words, I could draw two immediate conclusions: they mistakenly assumed that the mosaic chamber was empty, and they plotted treason against Lord Baron Norandor.

Keeping his voice low, as befitted a devoted conspirator, Gratch said, “We are safe here from interference, my lord. No one followed us. I commented openly that we were going to the Kennels to survey the breeding bitches.”

Gurborian scowled. “Lord Baron Fool has named Sherek to be Master of Hounds. I had hoped to influence the choice from among our faction, but my bribes were evidently insufficient. That naming is done, and of less import than your news. How stands Bolduk’s faction—for us or against us?”

Reluctant to answer, Gratch toyed for a moment with his belt dagger. “I tried both the strategies we had discussed, my lord—hinting at dire costs for rejection, while promising fair rewards for alliance. Despite my best efforts, old Baron Bolduk continues obstinate, clinging to the senseless notion that only the Kolder are strong enough to vanquish Estcarp. I told him that the last Kolder within our borders have been dead for seven moons. The late Hound Master’s misguided foray into Estcarp should have convinced the very doorposts that Alizon can no longer expect any aid from the Kolder.”

“Bolduk is very like a doorpost,” mused Gurborian. “Perhaps a brisk fire at his base might melt his stubbornness. His blood feud with Ferlikian could always be revived by a word or two in the proper ears. Still, I would prefer Bolduk’s Line to be with us or neutral. Was he not impressed by your mention of our planned Escorian alliance?”

Gratch shook his head. “It is a delicate matter, my lord,” he said dourly, “to speak of any magical matter to Bolduk. Even though by our hoped-for alliance we should control the lash of spells, and for a welcome change, Estcarp’s crones would suffer the effects, Bolduk persists in abhorring any recourse to the weapons of our sworn enemies.”

Gurborian paced back and forth, his impatience evident in every stride. “Why can he not see—any weapon that might succeed must be employed? The Witches have thwarted us far too long with their foul containment spells woven from the Forbidden Hills across the Alizon Gap. It would be rare sport for them to be scourged by magic stronger than their own. If only we had an Escorian mage to exhibit . . . even an apt apprentice could persuade the undecided among the barons to join with us.”

Eager to placate his master, Gratch leaned toward Gurborian. “My lord, I am certain that I shall be successful in my latest negotiations. Today I received a message from my most reliable source near the Escorian border. If his information is correct, he should soon be able to arrange a meeting for me with a lower level student who has traveled in Escore and—”

Gurborian seized Gratch’s neck chain and jerked him so that his teeth rattled. “If—should—lower level student,” he scoffed. “I have heard such weasel words too often with nothing tangible to show for them. Norandor is already suspicious of our comings and goings. So far, I have mollified him.” He thrust Gratch away, and flourished the jewel on his own neck chain. “He awards me this to assure my loyal allegiance. Fool—it was mine thirteen years ago as Mallandor’s reward for my aid in deposing Facellian. Once our new plans are firmly forged my faction will feed Norandor to the hounds just as we earlier served his littermate. But I need more backing! I dare not move too soon without sufficient preparation.”

“There is one definite word of cheer, my lord.” Gratch had prudently stepped beyond Gurborian’s reach. “I was able to hire the poisoner we spoke of. The supply of smother root that you required will be delivered by tonight.”

“I shall make good use of it.” Gurborian smiled. “Bolduk’s younger whelp—is he not in the Castle with his sire? Should he suddenly fall ill or worse, Ferlikian would be blamed, and my quiet offer of sympathetic alliance could be well received.”

“I shall see to it, my lord,” said Gratch briskly. “Would it not be wise if we were seen at the Kennels, in case anyone should seek us there?”

Gurborian started for the door, then paused. “Indeed . . . although I do not care to encounter Volorian’s fosterling in the Kennels. I hear that he is as tediously keen a houndsman as that troublesome border lord himself.”

“While I was in the mountains during the Second Whelping Moon, I saw Baron Volorian from a fair distance,” Gratch remarked, as he followed his master out into the corridor. “He was wading through his pack, choosing new breeders. They say he’s too old and too involved in the breeding to leave his estates nowadays. As you saw, he did not come for this year’s Assembly.”

“Volorian may be old,” Gurborian replied with a laugh, “but he’s wily. He well remembers how I disposed of his younger littermate, so he keeps his distance from me.” Their voices receded, trailing off into a murmur, then silence.

I sat half dazed, my thoughts racing. A murder plot against Baron Bolduk’s younger whelp—Bolduk’s Line currently harbored no active animosity toward the Line Sired by Krevonel, but neither were we obligated to dispatch a warning. I judged that an admonitory word to Ferlikian would be more potentially useful. Such commonplace baronial machinations, however, were thoroughly dwarfed by Gurborian’s threat to forge a treasonous alliance with the magic-wielding fiends of Escore. Should Gurborian ever suspect that I had overheard his plotting, he would move swiftly to send me after my murdered sire.

I had been five years old when Gurborian ordered Oralian’s death. My sire had led a faction of the older barons who steadfastly resisted any alliance with the foreign Kolder. When the then-reigning Lord Baron Facellian had rammed through the alliance despite all opposition, Gurborian curried his favor by removing Facellian’s most prominent baronial opponents. Facellian eagerly acceded to the Kolder’s demand for war with the Dales across the sea. The Kolder being few in number, it fell to Alizon to provide the warriors, but the Kolder did supply us with uncommon weapons to advance our invasion.

I remember hearing my elder littermates discuss those early, exciting, and successful years of the war. Our coastal invasion was initially invincible. The moving metal boxes the Kolder supplied to shelter our fighters could scarcely be withstood. Even so, as our sire had warned the Baron’s Council before his murder, we were totally dependent upon the Kolder for the supplies required to maintain the boxes and their fire spewers. When those supplies were blocked by the Dales’ Sulcar allies, we lost our most powerful advantage. Two of my littermates died in the fighting, and when the third was too severely wounded to ride, his men cut his throat to prevent the Dales hags from loosening his tongue by magic.

I was twelve when it was clear the war was lost. Having nimbly positioned himself with Mallandor’s faction, Gurborian wielded an equally strong hand in Facellian’s overthrow. Even then, Gurborian’s ambition was overly fierce to be safely accommodated too close to the throne. In order to allow time for Mallandor’s justified suspicions to cool, Gurborian withdrew for six years to his coastal estates.

I had been quietly fostered with Volorian all those years, well away from the swirl of plotting in Alizon City. Following my unremarked presentation ceremony at age twelve, Volorian agreed that after a prudent time, I might take up residence in our pack’s castle in the City. I arrived at the castle when I was fifteen, the same year, I later learned, that Gratch first appeared at Gurborian’s side to become a shadowy partner in his scheming. They both returned to Alizon City when I was twenty, but they carefully stayed out of Mallandor’s way until two years later, when Estcarp’s Witches worked their foulest magic, tearing the very roots of their southern bordering mountains to foil Karsten’s impending invasion.

Mallandor yearned to strike while the hags reeled, depleted by their exertions, but their cursed containment spells still held across our mutual border. The pro-Kolder faction of barons then agitated for a concerted effort to open a new magical Gate for the Kolder, so that they might bring us more of their metal boxes as well as more Kolder to reinforce their scant remaining numbers. I was repelled by such plans, but it would have been fatal to say so. Because of my scholarly interests, it was acceptable for me to take part in the search for documents from the ancient days, even as far back as the Betrayal itself, in the hope of finding useful lore on the dreaded mage-work involved in the Gate magic.

During the spring of last year, Mallandor hearkened to more foolish advice—openly endorsed at the time by Gurborian’s faction—and sent his Master of Hounds Esguir raiding into Estcarp to seize some Witch pups for the Kolder to use in their Gate magic. The plot failed miserably; all the captive Witchlings escaped back into Estcarp, and the few Kolder left in Alizon Castle were all killed. Gurborian then revealed his true intentions. He rallied Mallandor’s enemies to overthrow the Lord Baron. Because his own faction was not strong enough to place him on the throne, however, Gurborian backed Mallandor’s ambitious littermate Norandor. Mallandor and Esguir were fed to the hounds, and Norandor assumed the Lord Hound’s mask.

From the conversation I overheard between Gurborian and Gratch, it seemed that yet another overthrow was being plotted, and this time I had no doubt that Gurborian sought the mask for himself. But what post could Gratch hope to attain? As a non-Alizonder, he could not be named Master of Hounds. Probably he expected to continue his role of counselor in Gurborian’s shadow. He was a dangerous foe, familiar with the rarest of poisons.

I remember wondering as I carefully made my way to my castle, whether my physical discomfort could be due to one of Gratch’s potions, but I dismissed the thought. Like all barons resident in the City, I regularly partook of small doses of various poisons to build advance resistance. I had also made a useful study of antidotes, thus I felt reasonably sure I could deal with Gratch’s threat. My household servants were all reliable, due to pack loyalty, blood-ties, or fear. To lessen the lure of bribes, I kept my pay levels sufficient.

On my way through secluded alleyways, I had to pause several times to recover from fits of dizziness. As I reflect upon the events of that night, I realize that my weakness was caused by my proximity to Gurborian’s accursed jewel.

Arriving at Krevonel Castle, I reeled to my bedchamber and lay down, apprehensive of what dreams might beset me should I fall asleep. All I could think about was that jewel—when I closed my eyes, its image burned in my mind. Somehow, that sparkling crystal seemed to be reaching out to me, drawing me toward its cold blue fire.