The Secret of The Tower (circle
          of Magic, Book 2)

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  Begin Content
SECRET OF THE TOWER
What's a wizard without magic? Randal broke his
promise the vow that all apprentice wizards must
take never to use a weapon. Now Randal can
graduate from the School of Wizardry only on
one condition: that he not use magic until he is
pardoned by a master wizard.
Randal must travel to the wizard's faraway tower
... a journey made all the more perilous because he
may use neither sword nor magic for protection.
When Randal finally reaches the mysterious tower, it
appears to be abandoned. But he soon discovers that the
building holds a deadly secret....
To Mildred Morgan and Larry L.
Doyle, for putting us up
-
and putting up with us- when we, like Randal, were on the
road
  This edition published in 2000.
  Originally published under the title
Circle of Magic: Tournament and Tower.
  Copyright [*copy] 1990 by Troll
Communications L.l.c.
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or utilized in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without written
permission from the publisher.
  Cover photography by Steven Dolce.
Printed in the United States of America. 10

SLAP!
RANDAL SWATTED a stinging horsefly that
had tried to make a meal from his shoulder.
"One down," he counted aloud. Then he looked
at the swarm still hovering in the air around him. "Only
about four thousand to go."
The late-afternoon sun beat down on the
Basilisk, a small country inn a few days'
ride from Tattinham, near the eastern mountains of
Brecelande. Inside the stable, the air was thick with the
stink of manure
and rotting straw, and throbbed with the buzzing of
heavy, slow-moving flies. Randal had once been
a squire in his uncle's castle of Doun, and most
re cently had been an apprentice wizard at the
Schola Sorceriae, the School of Wizardry, in
Tarnsberg on the western sea. Now he heaved
another pitchfork load of manure over his shoulder and
wondered why he'd ever left home.
Randal was about fifteen, with the height and the sturdy
build that come of being well-fed from earli est
childhood. At the moment, however, a film of
gray dust covered most of his face, and sweat plas
tered his long, untrimmed brown hair to his head and
neck. Soon after a pair of merchants departed,
Randal had begun working in the empty stables. The
Basilisk's regular hostler-who should have been working
with him-had never arrived.
"It's no good," Randal muttered. "I have to rest."
He leaned the pitchfork against the wall of the stable and
rubbed his hands down the front of his tunic. His right
palm ached, as it did whenever he performed hard
physical work these days. He looked down at the
hand, at the raised, red scar that stretched across it-low
on the side away from his thumb, higher on the other
side-so that it actually crossed the first joint of his
forefinger.
Randal clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to ease the
cramp in the scar-stiffened flesh. If only he
hadn't grabbed the sharp-edged blade of Master
Laerg's ceremonial sword ... if only he
hadn't used the magical object like a knightly
weapon to kill the renegade wizard Laerg before his
spells could destroy not only Randal, but the entire
School of Wizardry ... if only ... but if
he hadn't done those things, he would be dead now, and the
kingdom of Brecelande would be held fast in
Laerg's sorcerous grip.
Even working here for the rest of my life,
thought Randal, glancing around the filthy stable,
would be better than that.
He took up the pitchfork again and returned to mucking
out the straw. As he worked, he took some comfort in
knowing that tomorrow or the next day should see him on the
road again, well away from
the Basilisk and its stinking stable, and within reach-at
last-of his goal.
Magic.
More than anything else, Randal wanted to be a
wizard, a worker in spells and enchantments that could
change the texture of reality-or, more practi
cally, make short work of clearing out a filthy stable.
He had spent three years at the Schola in
Tarnsberg studying the magical arts before he broke
the oldest law of wizardry-the one that forbade a
wizard to attack or defend with steel.
His action had saved the Schola from destruction, and the
Regents-the master wizards who con trolled the
School of Wizardry-had not been un grateful.
They'd made Randal a journeyman wizard,
setting him on the second stage of the long road that
led from apprenticeship to mastery. But they'd also done
something else.
They'd taken his magic away from him. Until he
could get permission from the wizard Balpesh, once a
Regent of the Schola and now a hermit living near
Tattinham in the eastern mountains, all Randal's
skill and training had to remain untouched, no mat
ter how great the need.
Randal slapped at another fly. Back in
Tarnsberg, any second-year apprentice could
get rid of these flying nuisances with an
elementary spell. He could do it himself right now.
Nothing prevented him ex cept his own will.
The Regents of the Schola hadn't put him under any
kind of enchantment or binding spell when they barred
him from the use of magic; they had done
something far simpler, and far less kind. They had
asked for his sworn word, and he had given it.
A wizard doesn'
t lie,
thought Randal, bending again at his work.
Even if I
can
His
t work magic right now, I'm still a wizard
. The Regents
said so.
Randal had wanted to be a wizard ever since a
master wizard named Madoc the Wayfarer visited
Castle Doun. The training that kept Randal true
to his promise, however, had begun a long time before.
Lord Alyen, who was Randal's uncle and brother of the
baron who ruled over Doun, had never spoken an
untruth in Randal's hearing-and Sir Palamon, the
castle's master-at-arms, who was in charge of turning
squires into knights and clumsy peasants
into seasoned fighting men, had his own way of dealing with
liars and oath breakers.
Sir Palamon,
reflected Randal,
had high standards.
In everything. If he ever saw
this stable
,
he'd nail the hostler
His
s hide to the wall.
More than once, on his long journey eastward from
Tarnsberg, Randal had caught himself half wishing
he had never left the castle and barony of Doun.
If he'd stayed, he'd have been almost a knight
by now; Sir Palamon himself had said that Randal showed
promise.
But no, I
had to be smart
. Living
at ease
for the rest of my life wasn't good
enough.
Another forkload of manure went over his shoulder.
I wanted to understand the mysteries of the
universe.
Randal gulped a breath through his mouth-the air was too
nasty to breathe any other way-and
dragged the back of his arm across his forehead in a vain
attempt to keep the sweat from running into his eyes.
"Mysteries of the universe, hah!" he muttered
aloud. "I'm standing knee-deep in the mysteries of the
universe right now."
The thought made Randal laugh. In the dusty stable, the
laugh turned into a choke, then a coughing fit. He
staggered out of the open door into the sweet air and
sunlight of the inn yard. He was coughing so hard that he
barely heard the ringing of bridles and pounding of
hooves as a trio of mounted men swept through the
gate and into the yard.
He looked up as the cavalcade blocked the light
in front of him. Through watering eyes he got an
impression of bright colors and rich patterns. As
the
coughing fit passed, he heard a voice bellowing in
his ear, "Boy! Say, boy! Take care of the
horses, I say!"
Randal turned toward the speaker, and saw a young man
scarcely a year or two older than himself. The
youth wore the belt, spurs, and chain of a
knight, and rested one gloved hand on the hilt of a
sword.
So this is what they'
re making knights
out of these days,
thought Randal.
Sir Palamon
was right
about
chivalry
going downhill in a greased handcart.
The young man wasn't amused by Randal's appraising
glance. "Look at me that way again, boy, and
I'll slap your eyes out. Now take the horses
and be quick about it, their comfort's worth more than your
miserable life."
Randal looked away. He took the bridles of the
horses as they were given to him and kept his thoughts
to himself. The Basilisk's regular hostler, the one
Randal was supposed to be assisting, came running
up to help with the task, all the while bow ing to the
lordlings and muttering a stream of flat tering
phrases.
In spite of the hostler's show of eagerness, most of the
work still fell to Randal. He walked the
horses down, dried them, and curried them. When that
task was finished, the hostler had Randal spread new
straw and set out hay. By the time the work in the stable was
done, the sun had almost set, and Randal had to help
close the gates of the inn yard.
With its gates closed and barred, the inn resem bled
a small fortress more than it did a place where
hospitality might be found. Nobody inside the
walls complained, however-no honest man went
abroad in this country by night. Some folk claimed
that in the old days, before the death of the High King,
wild beasts were never seen outside of the deepest for
ests, and a man could walk alone from one side of the
realm to the other with a sack of gold tied to his
belt, and never fear a thief. But if those days had
ever truly existed, they were long gone. When they could,
travelers spent the night behind locked doors.
After the gates were shut, Randal went to the kitchen behind
the main room of the, inn. These days, as he made his
way to Tattinham as a traveling laborer, he
never got to walk into any place by the front door.
In the kitchen, the cook set Randal to
scouring out the pots and pans from dinner. Finally, almost
two hours later, Randal got his own share of the
evening meal: a small portion of burned
meat and soggy bread.
He retreated with the food to the chimney corner, where
he wolfed down the bread and meat in spite of the
taste. As usual, the food vanished long before his
hunger was satisfied. He thought wistfully of the
meals he'd eaten at the Schola. Like most other
apprentices, he had complained about the school's
plain and somewhat monotonous fare. But there had always
been more than enough to fill even the emptiest stomach.
"If I'd known then what I know now ..." Randal
muttered. The cook shot him a murderous look, and
he fell silent again.
After his meal, he made his way across the yard to his
sleeping place in the stable. Although the afternoon had been
hot, the night breeze blowing through the dark inn yard
made Randal shiver. His stomach growled a protest
against the scanty meal, but since he couldn't do
anything about the emptiness in his midsection, he
ignored it.
He couldn't help remembering what Madoc the
Wayfarer had said when Randal was still a squire at his
uncle's castle, and becoming a wizard had seemed
like a bright and wonderful dream: "You'll be hungry
more often than fed," the master wizard had told him,
and you'll spend more time in danger on the road
than safe under a roof."
Madoc was certainly right about that one,
thought Randal. So intent was he on his own thoughts that
he
didn't watch the path ahead of him. A moment
later, he ran straight into a warm, cloth-covered
wall.
"Churl!" said a familiar and slightly drunken
voice. It was the young knight he'd encountered in the
inn yard earlier. "Do you realize you've stepped on
the toe of a nobleman?"
Wonderful,
Randal thought.
Just the way I wanted to end the day.
He tried to sidestep the young knight and continue on
toward the stable. But the nobleman was not pleased.
"Don't you have a tongue, you insolent oaf? I'll
teach you to touch a knight."
"I'm ... I'm sorry, my lord," Randal
mumbled. "You certainly are," growled the knight.
"And you'd be even sorrier if I had the schooling of
you."
Randal started to mutter something properly
apologetic, but a second voice cut in from behind
him and drowned out his words.
"What's all this, then?"
"Not much," said the first knight. "Just a peasant with
no manners."
"That so?" said the other. "Turn around, peasant."
Randal felt a hard shove between his shoulder blades.
He turned to look at the man who had pushed him.
The move turned out to be a serious mistake.
"Boy!" snarled the one who had spoken first. "Do you
dare turn your back on a knight?"
Randal felt another hard shove, one that spun him
around again in spite of his effort to keep his feet.
"No manners at all," said the second man behind
him. "He was warned, and here he's turned his back
on a knight again. We'll have to teach him." As he
spoke, he dealt Randal a slap that made the young
wizard's head reel.
Through the buzz in his head, Randal heard a new
voice joining in with the others. "What do we have here?"
"A dirty little pig that doesn't know how to act before
his betters," said the first knight.
"Time he was taught a lesson, then," said the new
voice. Randal felt another blow, harder than the
others. This hand wore rings.
Laughter echoed in the night. A foot kicked out and
snatched Randal's leg from under him. But
Randal knew how to fall, and he rolled quickly
back to his feet. He tried to get away and
fade into the shadows, but one of his assailants
caught him and pushed him into the circle again.
"Don't leave before you're dismissed, boy." Randal
wavered to a stop in front of the knight who had just
spoken. His head still spun from the blows he had
taken, and he almost lost his balance.
"That's not the way to bow, fool," said the knight.
Randal kept his head down, but his fists at his
sides were clenched tight. If only he had his
magic back again ...
It wouldn't even take a lightning bolt, just a
flash and a bang and these knights would be running for their
lives. But I gave my word.
A buffet from the clenched fist of his latest tormentor
almost knocked Randal off his feet. He
clenched his own fists tighter, feeling the pain in his
scarred palm and welcoming it as a distraction.
One of the other knights slapped Randal so hard the
youth's eyes watered, and his ears rang with the blow.
I could take him,
thought Randal through the racket in his head.
I'm not banned from fighting

from using
steel
. But if I
knock him down,
his friends
will probably kill me.
A boot hit Randal in the knee. He
collapsed, and this time he stayed on the ground. He
rolled into a ball on the packed dirt, hoping
to protect himself from serious injury while the group of
knights worked off their bad temper.
The next kick did not land. Instead, a deep and
somehow familiar voice called out, "Let him go."
I've heard that voice somewhere,
thought Randal. So, it seemed, had the ones who'd
been bullying
him. He sensed them drawing back away from him, and
then heard one of them-the young knight who had started the
game-ask in a surly tone, "Who dares command
me?"
"Sir Walter of Doun," said the newcomer. "Who
asks?"
"Sir Reginald de Haul Desert," said the first
knight stiffly, like a dog backing off from its prey
when it sees the pack leader coming. "I have
heard of you, sir."
And so have I,
thought Randal miserably, pressing his head into his
knees where he lay in the dust of the inn yard. His
cousin Walter was the last person in Brecelande he
wanted to see at the moment. Even
getting kicked senseless by Reginald and his friends would
have been preferable.
"And I have heard of you, sir." Walter's voice
was courteous, but unyielding.
There was a pause, and then another voice from the
circle around Randal said, "This one isn't worth
dirtying my boots on. I'm going back
inside."
From the sounds, Randal knew that the others had left with
him. Walter spoke again out of the darkness above
Randal.
"Here, now, boy. Are you hurt?"
Randal stayed curled up on the ground and shook his
head. Maybe his cousin would go away. But no ...
Lord Alyen and Sir Palamon had always taught that
a true knight took the less fortunate under his
protection, and Walter seemed intent on living up
to the ideal.
"Let me look at you, boy. Is this
blood on your face?"
Randal shook his head. "It doesn't matter, my
lord," he muttered.
Then he realized that his cousin wasn't going to go
away as long as he lay there on the packed dirt.
He tried to stand, but the last kick to his knee had
been too much for him, and he faltered as he came
upright.
A strong arm caught him before he could fall. Randal
felt the limber muscle beneath the heavy chain mail
and a linen surcoat. Walter had grown over the last
three years from a gangly boy into a young man of
almost twenty. Randal looked away, still hoping not
to be recognized.
"Here," said Walter. "Let me give you a hand.
He slipped an arm under Randal's and began
helping the young wizard limp back toward the lighted
inn. Randal muttered something he hoped sounded like
thanks; his voice hadn't finished changing when he'd
left Doun for the Schola, so maybe Walter
wouldn't remember him well enough to recognize his
voice and accent.
But Walter had never been stupid. He paused,
and the idle kindness in his voice changed to genuine
curiosity. "What's your name, boy?"
A wizard never tells anything but the truth,
thought Randal, despairing.
Lies and magic don't work in the same mouth.
"Well, answer me," Walter said, more sharply this
time. "What's your name?"
"Randal," Randal said, almost in a whisper. Then, more
strongly, "Randal of Doun, cousin."
II. Squire
RANDAL sat ON the floor of the small room that
Walter had rented for the night. The young wizard dabbed
at his cut cheek with a wet rag and looked up at his
cousin.
"When did you get here, anyway?" Randal asked.
He wrung out the rag into the wooden bowl on the
floor in front of him, dampened the scrap of
cloth with fresh water from the pottery jug beside the
bowl, and dabbed at his cheek again.
"I came in after dark," Walter said. "They had
to open the gates for me. I'd barely gotten done
seeing to my horses when I heard that racket
outside the stable."
Walter sat on the lumpy pallet that served as the
room's only mattress, his long legs stretched
out in front of him. The smoky light of the tallow
candle cast flickering shadows across his face.
As soon as he'd latched the door of the room behind
Randal and himself, he'd stripped off his surcoat.
Like the surcoats worn by most knights, Walter's
outer garment was blazed with his heraldic device, the
same design that he bore on his shield. Walter
had chosen
a simple pattern of the family colors of red and
gold, divided along a line from his right shoulder
to his left hip, with a green pine tree in the
forefront. After the surcoat, he removed his chain
mail and his arming coat-the quilted tunic he wore
underneath the mail. Now he was dressed in just a light
linen undertunic, almost as stained by sweat and travel as
Randal's was.
He's been on the road for quite a while, too,
thought Randal, and Walter's next words confirmed his
guess.
"I'm heading for Tattinham," said Walter.
"I'll be fighting in the tourney there."
Randal wasn't surprised. Even before he left
Doun to study wizardry, he'd known that Walter would
be following the tournaments as soon as Lord Alyen
would let him go. If Walter had remained at
Doun until his father died, with no work of his own, he
could only have grown restless and possibly
troublesome. Sending him out to fight in the tournaments was
dangerous, but in the long run kinder to everybody.
Such a course wasn't uncommonRandal himself
might have done the same if he hadn't chosen the path
to wizardry instead.
"Have you been on the road long?" Randal asked.
Walter nodded. "I was knighted last year. At
first I traveled with Sir Palamon, but now I'm
on my
own.
He paused, and fixed Randal with a knowing gaze. "But
what I'm doing here doesn't matter. The question,
cousin, is what are
you
doing here?"
Randal dropped the damp rag back into the bowl and
shrugged. "It's a long story."
"I didn't think it'd be a short one," said
Walter dryly. "But I don't have anything else
to do tonight. How long have you been living like this?"
"Working my way?" asked Randal. "Since spring.
I was in Tarnsberg before that, studying wizardry."
"I suppose that traveling magician what's his
name took you there."
"Wizard," corrected Randal.
"Madoc's a wizard, not a magician. Yes,
I left with Master Madoc." "That's what Father
said," Walter told him, smiling a little. "Sir
Palamon and Sir lohan-now, those two were in a
rare fit. They were saddled and bridledand ready
to ride after you. The man-at-arms who'd seen you go but
hadn't stopped you was quaking at the look on their
faces."
"Then what happened?" Randal asked.
"Not much," said Walter. "Father called Sir
Palamon and Sir lohan to him, and after he'd done
talking with them, they sent their mounts back to the stable and
never spoke of you again."
Madoc said he'd told Lord Alyen,
Randal remembered.
It must have been an interesting conversation.
But Walter's brief amusement had already died
away. "You shouldn't have left without saying goodbye
to me, at least. You know I wouldn't have told
anyone."
Randal looked away from his cousin, and down at the
bowl of water. "I didn't think you'd understand."
Walter didn't say anything. After a moment, a
knock on the door broke the uncomfortable silence.
"That'll be the food," Walter said, sounding
relieved at the interruption. "Are you hungry?"
Randal nodded. Walter went to the door and opened it.
Outside lay a wooden platter with a meat pie and a
loaf of bread. A leather bottle of water rested
on the floor beside the platter.
Walter cut the pie in half with his dagger and handed a
portion to Randal. The young wizard bit into the pastry
and juicy beef, and felt thankful for the kitchen
scraps he'd eaten earlier-without those to take the
edge off his appetite, he'd have shamed himself before his
cousin by tearing into his dinner like a hungry animal.
"So," said Walter, when all the food was gone.
"Tell me about Tarnsberg."
Randal was silent for a moment. How could he
describe the Schola to somebody who'd never studied
there? Walter would never know an apprentice
wizard's bitter frustration when a common charm
refused to work, or understand the heady joy that came from
seeing a difficult spell turn out right at last.
"It's a city on the western coast," said Randal
finally, without looking up. "I studied magic there."
"For three years?" Walter asked.
Randal nodded. He could sense his cousin looking at
him, and Walter's next question came as no
surprise.
"Can you show me some?" "You mean, do magic?"
"Yes."
Randal shook his head. "I can't."
"What do you mean, you can't? Didn't you learn
anything in three years?"
"More than I wanted to," said Randal. "I'll
tell you all about it someday, but not now."
He gave a quick, involuntary shudder. Just the
memory of the last time he'd worked magic-in Master
Laerg's demon-filled tower room, crowded with
scaly horrors seeking to drink his blood-was enough
to make his mouth go dry. He reached out for the leather
bottle of water, and felt "his wrist caught in
Walter's muscular grip.
He didn't resist as his cousin turned the hand,
palm upward. "That's quite a scar," said Walter,
after a few seconds. "How did you get it?"
"I grabbed the wrong end of a sword."
Walter laughed. "Sure you did. After all of
Sir Palamon's training! That's a good one,
Randy ... you grabbed the wrong end of a"
Then Randal saw his cousin's amusement start to fade
as Walter got a closer look at the red,
slanting scar.
"You're not joking, are you?" said Walter
quietly. "That's recent, too. Do you want
to tell me about
"No." "Randal," said Walter, "whatever
happened,
you're still family. Is there somebody I'm going to have
to kill for this?"
"No," said Randal again. He pulled his hand away
and closed his fist to hide the scar. "He's already
dead."
Walter gave him a long, considering look. "I
see. And what about you? Are you going somewhere, or are
you just drifting about?"
That, at least, Randal could answer. "I'm heading for
Tattinham, and from there about a day's journey into the
mountains. There's someone I have to find up there."
"That's wonderful!" Walter seemed genuinely
pleased. "We can travel together for a few days."
Randal fingered the cut on his cheek and gave his
cousin a doubtful glance. "Will you be going with those ...
with the others?"
"Why, yes, I suppose I will. Safety in
numbers ... oh, I see your problem." Walter
frowned. "We'll have to tell them you're my
squire. They'll never suspect you were the boy they
beat up in the dark."
"Probably not," said Randal.
Besides,
he thought,
Reginald and all his friends put together probably
aren't smart enough to make a guess like that.
"But I won't lie about myself," he told his
cousin. "I'm a journeyman wizard; even if I
can't work magic, a wizard doesn't speak anything
but the truth.,"
"I'm not asking you to lie about anything," said
Walter, a little stiffly. "After all, cousin,
I'll be giving my word on this as well. You'll be
wearing my colors, riding my spare horse,
helping me arm and seeing to my needs-which means you'll.
be a squire in truth-if you haven't forgotten
how."
"I remember," said Randal with a sigh.
"Fine," said Walter. He blew out the candle,
leaving the room dark except for a scrap of
moonlight
slipping through a chink in the shutters. "Then good
night, and wake me in the morning."
The rooster in the inn yard started crowing before the sun
rose. Randal got up in the pale gray light of
false dawn and dressed himself in his cousin's
spare surcoat, and then awakened Walter just as the
sun came up.
"Well, squire," said Walter as he belted on
his sword, "we're off for the road." He smiled
at Randal. "I tell you, it's good to have a
familiar face beside me again."
"Let's hope it's not too familiar," said
Randal. "Sir Reginald won't be pleased with you
if he recognizes me."
"Leave Sir Reginald to me," said Walter.
"Just do your work and stay out of his way."
But in spite of Randal's fears, none of the knights
who gathered in the common room downstairs-Sir
Philip, Sir Louis, or Sir
Reginald-gave any sign of recognizing him.
By daylight, the three looked ordinary enough, nothing
like the shadowy figures who had knocked him about the
night before. Sir Philip, the youngest of the three,
had a look of reckless enthusiasm about him.
All action,
judged Randal,
and no thought.
Sir Louis was the oldest, round-faced and
heavyset; by the time he reached middle age, he would
be fat. Sir Reginald, who'd started the
ugly sport, was the tallest and strongest. In a
fair fight, Randal thought, he might come close
to being a match for Walter.
None of the knights paid any attention to Randal's
cut cheek or to the bruises along his jawbone.
Instead, they greeted Walter and ignored Randal a
squire, like any servant, was just a part of the
landscape.
All five members of the little party soon mounted and
rode into the early morning. The sun shone out of a
clear summer sky, drying the dew from the grass and from
the damp brown dirt of the narrow road. In the
foothills of the eastern mountains, however, the air
never grew too warm for comfort. A cool breeze
blew down from the high ground, ruffling the hair of the
riders and making a stirring sound among the trees.
Randal hadn't ridden on horseback for over three
years. He'd left Castle Doun on foot, and
had traveled on foot ever since. He knew that
he couldn't have handled the big, heavily muscled
warhorse that his cousin Walter rode.
Fortunately, Walter's other horse was a
palfrey-a smaller, gentler-tempered animal,
trained for endurance and smoothness of gait, not for going
into battle. Randal found that what his mind had
forgotten about good horsemanship learned in
boyhood, his body remembered. He soon
accustomed himself to the palfrey's ambling pace, and
settled back to enjoy a pleasant morning's
ride.
He told himself that the sun was bright, that his cousin's
company was a welcome surprise, that by traveling
on horseback he was certain to reach Balpesh-and his
own magic-that much sooner.
After a while Walter dropped back from the company
of the other three knights and rode beside him.
"You're awfully quiet this morning," Walter said
after a few minutes. "Is something wrong? It's a
beautiful day."
"I know," said Randal. "It's just-I can't
explain."
Walter gave him a curious look. "You've been
saying that a lot recently."
Randal shrugged. "Life's more complicated than I
used to think it was."
"Something else you learned in Tarnsberg?" The
half-teasing question hit harder than Walter had
probably intended. Randal thought of Laerg, who
had looked like every apprentice's ideal of a master
wizard, but who had nearly brought down the
entire Schola with his wickedness.
He looked over at his cousin. "Yes," he said,
without smiling. "You could say I learned it there."
Walter gave up trying to jolly him out of his bad
humor after that. Shortly after noon, the party
overtook a solitary knight also heading toward
Tattinham. When they had drawn close enough to see
the device emblazoned on the rider's shield,
Walter spurred his warhorse forward with a shout.
"Hallo, Sir Guillaume!"
The other knight halted and turned toward the outcry.
"Well met, Sir Walter!" he shouted.
He galloped back along the road to join the little
group. There, Walter introduced the newcomer to the
other knights.
"This is Sir Guillaume of Hernefeld, whom
I think some of you already know by reputation. I've
seen him fight, and have fought by his side, and can tell
you that he is both valiant and courteous."
Sir Guillaume was a young knight, about
Walter's age, with dark hair and a thick moustache.
He bowed from the saddle to Sir Reginald and his
companions. "It's good to meet friends on the road
at last-I'd begun to fear that I was the only
fellow going to a tournament in this forsaken
region."
The day wore on. About midafternoon, the road began a
long downhill slope toward a line of trees that
snaked from horizon to horizon across their path.
"Lubac River," said Sir Reginald, pointing
at a glimmer of water among the trees.
By daylight, among friends of his own rank, the young
knight seemed a pleasant fellow-but Randal
hadn't forgotten the man's arrogant tone and hard
fist in the dark of the inn yard. "I'm told there's a
ford here," the knight continued, "and an inn about two
hours beyond."
All the riders urged their horses forward, Randal
along with the rest. The knights arrived in a group at
the water's edge, where slender poplars grew along
the riverbank, and a shallow spot in the river allowed
men or carts to go across. Here at the ford, the river was
broad and moved slowly, but Randal could hear the
rushing noise of white water, and saw that a little
farther downstream, the river broke into foam as it
passed over unseen rocks.
Sir Philip urged his horse into the clear blue
water to scout the way to the other side. The ford was
shallow-the water didn't even dampen the knight's
stirrups as he rode across. On the
opposite bank he halted, looked at the ground,
and then swung down from his horse to look closer.
Then he stood, faced the others, and gestured for them
to hurry.
The other knights put spurs to their horses, and
came charging across the river. At the top of the bank,
Walter called out, "What have you got, Sir
Philip?"
"A rare mystery," the knight replied, "and a chance
for some sport." He pointed at the road. "What
do you make of those marks?"
Walter scanned the ground with a hunter's keen and
experienced eye. Randal could remember him looking
over the tracks of deer and wild boar in much the
same way during their boyhood together at Castle
Doun. "There was a fight here," he said. "Not more
than a day ago. Three riders were at tacked from
both sides by men on foot."
The young knight pointed to where the grass at the sides
of the road was broken and pressed down. "See,
there's where the attackers lay in wait. And the
tracks of the horses go this far along the road, and
no farther-but there they are again, leading off into the
woods."
Randal, listening, didn't doubt that Walter
was right. The journeyman wizard remembered the
merchants who'd ridden into the Basilisk from the
direction of Cingestoun. The merchants had trav
eled on horseback, and a man-at-arms
accompanied them to help guard the pack train.
They'd left at dawn yesterday, heading for the market
fair at
Tattinham-but it looked as if they hadn't gotten
very far.
"So what do we do now?" asked Sir Reginald.
"Ride on?"
"And turn our backs on a chance for fame and
glory?" asked Sir Philip. "Of course not!"
Sir Guillaume was more practical. "How many of
them are there?"
"No more than a dozen," said Walter. "And they're
on foot."
"Well, let's go looking," said Sir
Guillaume. "But not for too long. I'd hate
to be caught in the woods after dark."
"If the next inn is no more than two hours down
the road," said Walter, "we'll have time."
Guillaume nodded briskly. "Then let's go."
The little group of knights turned their horses'
heads away from the road they had been
following and rode into the forest to their left. The
knights strapped their shields to their arms and drew
their swords, riding forward as quietly as they could.
The dark, sturdy oak trees surrounded them, and the
branches arching overhead cast a deep shade, making
the forest even cooler in the cool day.
Randal shivered a little. I
don't like this place,
he thought. He turned to his cousin. "Walter-was
"What is it?"
- I can't explain.
. . .
"Nothing," said Randal.
They rode on. Before long, Randal heard noises
ahead: raucous shouts and laughter, the ringing note of
an ax biting into a log, the crackling of a
bonfire. The knights were at the edge of a sizable
encampment, but still they had not been noticed or
challenged.
"Sounds like somebody's having a party," Sir
Louis observed in a low voice. "Don't they
believe in keeping watch?"
A few moments later, Randal understood the rea
son for the lack of sentries. Between the close-set
tree trunks of the deep forest, he saw a
clearing full of rough-looking men. Most of them were
drinking from a huge cask that stood near the center of the
camp. Some of the men had already fallen asleep on the
leafy ground, and others sat singing and joking around a
roaring fire.
Randal spotted three horses tethered on the far
side of the clearing. Two stood in the shadows, but
dappled sunlight shone on the third. He
recognized it as belonging to one of the merchants who had
left the Basilisk in the clear light of the
previous dawn. The horses kept moving about
uneasily, made nerv ous by something that hung from a
tree nearby. At first Randal couldn't make out the
details of the hanging object, but then it twisted in
the wind and he saw the thing clearly.
It was the body of the merchants' guard.
III. Night at the Inn
RANDAL TURNED HIS head aside and shut his
eyes. Nearby, he heard Sir Guillaume
remark, "That fellow must have given them some trouble,"
and Sir Reginald grunted in agreement.
Randal opened his eyes again. Now that he knew who
to look for, he could see the merchants as well. The
two men lay trussed up on the ground, stripped of
their fine clothing and covered with dirt and
blood. A large bandit squatted beside them, poking
at them with a knife and watching them wiggle.
"Looks like a couple of captives there," Sir
Guillaume went on. "Maybe we can get a
reward by saving them."
Walter spoke for the first time since they'd seen the
camp in the clearing. "Reward or no reward, I
can't see any choice but to help them. Reginald,
Louis, you two circle around on horseback and
make sure none of the bandits try to flee:" He
paused, and then added as an afterthought, "Squire
Randal, stay back and keep my palfrey out of the
fighting-she's no warhorse, and might panic.
Philip and Guillaume, charge when I give the
word"
The young wizard felt his lack of magic keenly.
He could imagine casting panic among the outlaws
with a sudden fireball or a crash of thunder, and
preventing loss of life on either side. Instead,
he had to hang back in the shadows while faint
rustlings and jinglings from the underbrush told him that
Walter and the other knights were working their way
into position.
Then Walter's deep voice shouted "Charge!" and the
knights burst out of the forest into the clearing. The
outlaws sprang to their feet and grabbed
their weapons. Most of them had short swords or
pole arms, but a few had nothing more than knives and
wooden clubs to use against the five armored and mounted
men.
Sir Philip, still eager for sport and glory, was
riding in the forefront of the charge. One of the outlaws
swung a halberd at the knight, taking him in the
side. He fell from his horse and went down in the
press of men.
As Randal watched, his cousin Walter swung down
from his horse and headed on foot toward the fallen
man. The young knight strode forward toward where his
companion had fallen, his shield held before him, his
sword cocked at the ready behind his back. Sir
Guillaume joined him, standing on Walter's
left, the rims of their" shields almost touching.
"Their long blades rose and fell as they cut their
way toward Sir Philip.
The other two knights, Sir Reginald and Sir
Louis, circled on horseback around the knot of
bandits. The mounted knights fought with sword in one
hand and shield in the other, guiding their horses with their
knees. Whenever their blades flashed down, another
of the bandits fell.
Sir Philip's riderless charger broke out of the
turmoil in the clearing and headed for the forest. As the
wild-eyed animal surged past Randal, the young
wizard made a grab for the flying reins, caught
them, and steadied the beast. Then he rode far enough forward
to catch up with the abandoned horses of Walter and
Sir Guillaume, and gathered the reins of all
three chargers and the palfrey into his hands.
In spite of the danger, Randal found himself
halfsmiling as he restrained the skittish
animals. I
can't
fight,
he thought,
and I can't do magic, but I can at least manage
to hold the horses.
When he looked back at the clearing, no one
except the knights was standing. All around the camp,
bodies lay sprawled on the ground. Sir
Reginald rode up to where Walter and Sir Louis
knelt beside Sir Philip. "Stupid fools,"
Reginald said, with a gesture at the dead men. "They
should have scattered and waited for us in the woods."
"It wouldn't have made any difference," said Sir
Philip from the ground. "We'd have beaten them
anyway." He coughed, and then rolled to the side.
Walter and Sir Louis helped him get to his
feet.
"Are you hurt?" Sir Louis asked.
"A bruise or two," Sir Philip replied.
"Nothing worse." He bent over with his hands on his
knees,
breathing heavily. "My chain mail stopped most of
it."
Sir Philip straightened, and then walked over
to one of the bodies that lay sprawled on the ground
nearby. He turned the body over with the toe of one
boot. Randal recognized the outlaw who had been
tormenting the merchants.
"He paid for his folly," was all the knight said.
Walter went to the two bound men on the ground, while
the other knights began to search the camp. Randal
stayed where he was on the edge of the clearing, still holding
the horses.
Dead men littered the ground. Randal looked up
toward the sky. Like everything else over the past few
days, the small, brutal skirmish in the woods
only served to bring home to Randal how wide the gap
had grown between himself and the life he had once known-the
life he had given up for his pursuit of
magic.
Once he might have felt, like Sir Philip, that
the outlaws had gotten what they deserved. But nothing
was that simple anymore. Even from where he stood,
holding the knights" horses, he could see that most
of the dead men were shabbily clad, and many were gaunt from
hunger.
They never had a chance,
he
thought,
not against knights in armor.
He shook his head.
If you'd come this way alone,
he reminded himself,
you'd probably be dead yourself by now. You aren't going
to see Walter wasting tears on a gang of bandits.
In fact, Walter was untying the captured
merchants and offering them water. The two were in
bad shape, but still alive-possibly the bandits had
thought that they were worth some kind of ransom.
Meanwhile, Sir Reginald and Sir Louis
came up with a heavy chest between them.
"This is all the robbers had," Sir Reginald
said. "Time to be going."
"No," said Walter. He gave a glance
toward the hanging corpse of the merchants' guard.
"There's one more thing we have to take care of first."
"We can't afford the time to dig a grave," said
Sir Reginald. "Not if we want to reach the inn
before dark."
"We can spare a moment for an honest man's last
need," said Walter firmly, and Sir Reginald
fell si lent.
As it turned out, the grave was mostly dug by Ran
dal, since the use of tools like shovels was beneath the
station of knights when a squire was available for the
work. After the burial, the knights set out again for the
inn that Sir Reginald had heard was nearby.
By the time the group of knights reached the road, the
sun had traveled more than halfway down to the
horizon. Sir Reginald frowned at the western
sky. "We'll be riding hard to reach the inn, thanks
to you," he said to Walter. "There's no safety out
side of walls in these parts."
Walter merely looked amused. "Then hard riding
it shall be," he said. With that he urged his horse into a
canter, and soon all the group, including the wounded
merchants, were riding fast down the highway.
In spite of the pace Walter set, it was nearly
nightfall by the time they reached the Headless
Man, the inn on the Tattinham road that was their
goal, and Sir Reginald was in a foul humor.
The group swept into the courtyard of the inn and dismounted.
Sir Reginald flung the reins of his charger
to Randal. "Make yourself useful," he said in a harsh
tone. "Take care of the horses."
I've heard that speech before,
thought Randal, but he said nothing as he led the
high-spirited warhorse away to the stable.
Seeing to the animals' needs kept him occupied for
some time.
At least we should have good company tonight,
he
thought, Judging by the number of horses in the stalls.
Yet later, when the journeyman wizard entered the
common room of the inn, he saw only one guest besides
the group of knights and the two merchants they had
freed from the bandits.
Strange,
thought Randal,
for an inn this near a town to have so few guests. And
where did all the horses come
from?
Still, the place seemed pleasant enough. A fire
burned in the hearth, and the dinner was hot and
plentiful; meat pies and roast pork, with cider and
ale in abundance. The landlord, a fat, jolly man
eager to please his noble-born guests, beamed
cordially at everybody, including Randal, but the young
wizard, for all that he had been close to starving the
day before, found himself lacking in appetite. He
sipped at a mug of hot cider, listened to Sir
Philip and Sir Louis arguing about falconry, and
thought
about the puzzle presented by an inn with a full stable and
so few guests.
After dinner the guests went upstairs to bed. The
rooms were larger than the ones back at the
Basilisk, had cots instead of pallets on the
floor, and the paneling on the walls was of shiny, dark
wood. Randal
had lived over a carpenter's shop in Tarnsberg, and
had learned enough about woodworking to know that the fine,
polished wood was only a parchmentthin layer covering
the cheap boards underneath.
There is always something hidden under the surface,
he thought.
Isn't anything ever what it seems to be?
Walter stretched out on one of the cots with a sigh
of exhaustion. "We'll spend tonight in comfort,
at least."
"I hope so," said Randal. He checked to make
certain the door was shut, and then turned to face his
cousin. "Walter, there's something funny about this
place."
Walter looked at him. "What do you mean, his
"funny"?
Randal tried to put his suspicions into words.
"Have you seen the stable? It's full, Walter-by the
time I got through stabling our horses, there wasn't
an empty stall left. So where are the other
guests? We only saw one."
"Maybe he's a horse trader," said Walter.
"They go to the market fairs, especially when there's
a tourney in the offing."
"Maybe," said Randal. "But still ..."
"If it makes you feel better," Walter said,
"we can
take turns staying awake all night. I'll stand
the first watch."
Randal lay down fully clothed, but sleep eluded
him for a long time. He hadn't been aware that he'd
drifted off until Walter was shaking him awake.
"It's midnight. Your turn."
Randal got up and stretched.
"'Take the watch until moonset," Walter
told him, "then I'll take it to dawn. Do you
want my sword?"
"No," said Randal. "I swore that I would never
use a knightly weapon again, regardless of the need."
Even in the moonlight, Randal could see the
disbelief on Walter's face.
"That was a stupid thing to do," said his cousin flatly.
"I didn't have a choice," Randal told him.
"You can't be a wizard and fight with steel."
Walter shook his head. "I can't see that being a
wizard's done you much good so far," he said. "Still,
if you swore, there's no room for question. A man who
breaks his word is nothing."
He lay down on the cot. "Wake me if there's
trouble," he said, and closed his eyes. Soon he was
snoring gently, with the long sword lying on the floor
close to his hand.
The night wore on. A patch of moonlight came
through a chink in the window. Randal watched it move
across the floor and up onto the wall.
When
it's gone,
he thought, I
can go back to sleep.
But then, he heard something out in the passage: a
metallic clink, like two keys knocking together.
He
would have thought nothing of it, except that it
seemed to him that somebody stifled the noise.
Someone sneaking
around?
he wondered.
A thief,
maybe?
He went to the door and unlocked it, then opened it a
crack. Outside, he saw nothing but blackness.
He hesitated, wondering if he should wake his cou
sin, then stepped out into the hall. There, the dark
ness was so thick it could almost be felt. He turned
to the right, and felt his way forward, keeping his hand on
the wall.
He came to a door-the room where one of the merchants
was staying-felt for the latch, and lifted it.
Not locked,
he thought.
Strange.
He pushed the door ajar. The shutters were open,
allowing moonlight to flood the room. After the dark
of the hall, Randal blinked at the sudden
brightness. He looked at the room. The man who
slept there lay entirely too still. In the
moonlight, Randal could see a strangling cord
buried in his neck.
Randal turned and stumbled out of the room. The door
to Sir Louis's room, directly across the hall,
fell under his hand. Moonlight lit this room as
well. But the sleeper did not stir. Blood ran
from a huge gash on the knight's forehead.
Randal turned back into the hall, and rushed to ward the
room he had shared with Walter. The door to the room
was open although Randal was sure he had closed it behind
him. He dashed toward the room, and saw, through the
door, the host of the
inn standing above the sleeping knight, a club in his
upraised hand.
"Walter!" Randal shouted.
The club came down. At the last moment, Walter
rolled aside-and the club smashed into the pillow where his
head had lain. Walter rolled to his feet with
three feet of naked steel protruding from his right
fist. Randal had never seen anyone draw a blade
that fast.
The man with the club turned to face the knight, and again
the bludgeon smashed down. Walter
blocked the blow with his sword, and then swung. The
man crumpled.
Randal turned in time to see another man coming up behind
him, lunging with a knife. The young wiz ard
sidestepped, and caught the arm as it came past him.
He pulled the man forward into the room, where Walter
waited.
"They're killing everyone!" Randal shouted.
"Bandits! his
Walter pushed past his squire into the hall. He
went up one side of the passageway and down the
other, pounding on the doors with the pommel of his
sword.
"Up and arm!" he shouted. "Outlaws are upon us!"
It was only too true. Armed men were coming up the
stairs at each end of the passageway-at least a
dozen of them-some with knives, some with swords, some with
clubs. One or two on each side carried
lighted torches.
By the flickering red light, Randal saw that the
surge of men would soon overcome Walter.
Magic,
whispered the voice of temptation in his ear. A
spell,
or we're all dead
.
Just as firmly, he pushed the idea away.
Walter is right
. If I break
my word, I'm nothing.
Randal's cousin thrust with the point of his sword, and a
man in the front rank of the bandits fell, knocking
into one of the torchbearers behind him. The brand, knocked
from the second man's hand, fell to the floor, where it
rolled up against the thin paneling of the inside wall.
But Walter was getting pushed back, step by step.
In the narrow confines of the hall, he couldn't fight
with the great swinging arcs that a broadsword required.
He was thrusting with the point of the blade, and blocking
with the edge, but Randal knew that he would soon be
surrounded.
Just then, the door across the hall from Randal's room
swung open. Sir Reginald looked out, still wearing
his nightshirt, but with his sword in hand. "What in the
name of thunder-was he began.
Then he saw the press of men crowding up the stairs
and into the hall. Without hesitation, he
stepped out of the doorway and took his place behind
Walter.
Together, the two of them were better off, but still the
situation was desperate. Then Sir Philip was
there, sword bared. The third knight had taken the
time to slip his mail coat over his head before joining the
fray. Now the three young knights were able to push
back against their attackers.
Randal heard a loud crackling sound starting to rise
above the noise of the combat. Flames from the
fallen torch had licked up the tinder-dry wood
of the paneling, and had run into the thatched roof above.
A red light played over the mass of fighting men,
and acrid smoke billowed forth from the burning thatch.
Then, in the midst of the smoke and glare, the outlaws
made a final charge. The weight of their bodies
pushed back the knights, and Randal was crushed against
the wall. He fell, and felt another body fall
on top of him. Squirming out from under the dead
weight, he crawled to the nearest open door.
He stood inside the room, coughing in the smoke,
then made his way to the open window. He climbed out,
and hung by his hands above the dirt of the courtyard.
Then he dropped.
Rolling, he came to his feet and looked around
him. Sparks from the burning roof scattered across the
sky. Some had fallen on the roof of the stable, and the
building was already starting to burn.
The horses ...
thought Randal, and dashed for the stable, dodging from shadow
to shadow as he ran. He opened the stable door and
ran inside, then stopped. Red flames licked at
the bottom of the roof, and the horses were bucking and
neighing in terror. Randal knew that their plunging
hooves could kill a man in an eyeblink-but without
horses, the knights would never get as far as
Tattinham even if they did win free of the inn.
Better kicked in the head than burned or
butchered,
Ran dal told himself. He opened the stalls and
drove out the maddened beasts, flattening himself against the
stable wall as they thundered past.
Now
for the
saddles.
He forced himself farther inside the burning
building. The knights" gear was still where he had put
it earlier; he located it mostly by feel in the
thick smoke and lugged it over, piece by piece,
to the nearest window. Then he started heaving it out into the
yard.
The air in the stable grew hotter as he worked.
Smoke filled his lungs, and he had
to pause from time to time to cough and gasp for breath.
Finally, Randal tossed the last piece of tack out
the window onto the ground, and clambered after it.
Seconds later, the stable roof collapsed behind him
with a tremendous roar.
IV. Tattinham
RANDAL SCRAMBLED TO HIS feet and started
dragging the saddles and other gear beyond the reach of the
flames. Out in the inn yard, the black night had
turned red with the light from the twin fires of inn and
barn. Shadowy figures of outlaws passed in
front of the doors and lower windows of the Headless
Man, illuminated by the flames. Panicky
horses swirled and plunged around the yard. Then out
of the inn's main door came four men close together,
standing in stark outline against the orange fire that shone
from the burning building.
From where he stood in the shadows, Randal saw that the
four knights were still in danger of being overpowered. He
looked at the yard full of horses. As he'd
expected, the knights' chargers could be easily
picked out from the rest by their size and quality, and by their
lack of fear now that they were out of the burning stable. The
noise and the smell of fighting, by themselves, had little power
to frighten creatures bred and trained for war.
Just the same,
Randal thought, as he struggled to put saddle and
bridle on his cousin's charger, I
wish
I could use a calming spell right now. I don
"t need to get my ribs kicked in this close
to finding Master Balpesh and getting my magic
back.
One by one, he saddled and bridled the other horses.
Over by the door of the burning inn, the four knights were
still fighting. Gathering up the reins of the warhorses,
Randal swung onto his palfrey. Right through the band
of outlaws he rode, sending them dodging in all
directions as the great horses threatened to trample
them into the dirt of the yard.
"Mount up! he shouted over the noise of the fighting.
"Mount up!"
Walter looked around and up at the sound of Randal's
voice. "Well done!" the knight exclaimed,
mounting his charger as he spoke. "I feared you were dead
in the fighting upstairs."
Randal had no time to answer. The other knights had
mounted their horses as well, and now they turned as a
group and charged the outlaws still remaining in the yard.
Against men on foot, a knight on
horseback was close to invincible. Even though they were
not completely armed or armored, the four knights
scattered the men before them. Soon the gray light of
dawn came through the smoke, and revealed Walter and
his companions to be the sole possessors of the
field.
"Nothing left here," Sir Philip said, poking
at the charred rubble of the inn. "And no sign of
Louis." "He's dead," said Randal. "The
innkeeper killed him-or the bandits did."
"Not much difference between the two," said Sir
Philip. The young knight looked at the ruins of
inn and stable. "Well, at least Louis has been
avenged."
"Not that it's doing him any good," Sir Reginald
snapped. "Or us, either. We lost everything but our
skins in that fire."
"Not quite," said Walter. "We have our horses,
thanks to my squire, and whatever else was left with
them in the stable."
Sir Guillaume strode up in time to overhear
Sir Reginald's complaint. He looked pleased
with him self in spite of the situation. "And thanks
to me, we have our armor-I had a chance to toss all
of it out the upstairs windows. We may
smell of smoke for a few days, but we can still fight
at Tattinham."
"Then we don't have anything to worry about," said
Walter. "Whatever else is lost, we can
replace with the help of our winnings."
The four knights put on their armor, and then rode
out into the pale dawn, leaving behind most of their
finery-and a good deal of their money as well-in the
ashes of the inn.
The next day, they reached Tattinham just as the sun
was setting. Tattinham was a walled town, not as
large as Tarnsberg, the port city on the western
sea where Randal had attended the School of Wiz
ardry, but certainly several times larger than Doun,
the village below the castle where Randal and Wal ter
had spent their younger days.
The tourney field itself lay outside the walls of the
town. There the companions went their separate
ways amid the scores of tents and pavilions
put up by the knights fighting in the next day's
tournament. Walter's pavilion had been in the
stable of the Headless Man, along with his saddle and other
gear; it smelled heavily of smoke, as Sir
Guillaume had predicted, but otherwise had come
to no harm.
Like a good squire, Randal set up the pavilion
and started a small campfire. Sir
Guillaume, meanwhile, set up his own tent near
the spot Walter had chosen. Sir Reginald and
Sir Philip had gone to camp elsewhere, at which
Randal was quietly pleased, the loss of their friend
Sir Louis had not sweetened Reginald's
temper, and if he ever did connect Walter's
squire with the sta2oy back at the Basilisk, he
might decide to challenge Walter then and there.
Night was settling fast over the campground.
Lanterns and torches and dozens of cooking fires
sparkled star-like on the hillside. From somewhere far
off, Randal could hear a ballad being sung, its
melody drifting over the sounds of men and horses
preparing for the night.
Feeling weary but content, he began to cook supper
for himself and his cousin. Walter, meanwhile, had
stripped off his surcoat and armor. He sat beside
Randal at the fire, wearing only his quilted arming
coat, whetstone in hand, and his bare sword across his
knees.
Then Walter's horses snorted. Walter was on
his feet in an instant, facing out into the night with his
sword ready before him. In the dark, nearby,
an unseen hand stroked a chord on a lute, and an
alto voice sang:
was I could have married the king's third son, And he
would have married me,
But I forsook a crown of gold And it's all for the
sake of thee."
Randal felt a thrill of recognition. I
know that voice,
he thought.
But I never
expected
to hear
it so far from
Tarnsberg.
"Lys!" he called. "Is that you?"
"Me and no other," said the voice, and the lute
player stepped forward into the circle of firelight.
In spite of her name, the newcomer wore a boy's
tunic and hose. Her disguise had never fooled
Randal, and didn't seem to be fooling Walter,
eitherthe young knight had lowered his sword and was sitting
down again with an amused expression. The slim,
slightly built girl could well be taken for a boy
by the unobservant, which gave her a small amount of
protection on the dangerous roads of
Brecelande.
She gave Randal a quick hug, and then stepped
back. "I'm glad to see you made it this far in one
piece," she said. "What happened to your face?"
"Nothing serious," said Randal. "And it's good to see
you, too-but what in the world are you doing here? The last
time I saw you, it looked like you were planning to stay in
Tarnsberg until the sea rose and the mountains
fell."
"What am I doing here?" echoed Lys. She sat
down cross-legged on the ground beside the campfire.
"I'm looking for you, that's what I'm doing and I
gave up a good job singing for my supper at
the Gryphon Tavern in Tarnsberg to do it, too,
so you'd better be grateful."
Randal looked at her suspiciously. "This
wasn't Master Madoc's idea, was it?"
"As a matter of fact," said Lys, "it was."
She plucked at the strings of the lute, a lingering
chord that hung in the night air like a question. "It was
strange, too ... he came into the Gryphon a
day or so after you'd left, and told me to pack up
and come along. He wouldn't say why, either just that I
had to meet you here before you started up into the mountains."
She shook her head at the memory. "We
traveled fast, let me tell you. My feet are
still sore-and I thought I was used to life on the
road!"
"Is Madoc here in camp now?" Randal asked
hopefully. It had been over four months since
he'd last seen the master wizard who'd given him his
first glimpse of the wonders of magic.
"No," Lys said. "I've been in town for a month
already, waiting for you. He headed on north."
Randal's spirits fell. "Oh, well," he said after
a
moment. "He's not the sort to stay in one place very
long. I wonder, sometimes, how he managed to stick
around Tarnsberg long enough to make it through his
apprenticeship.
All this while, Walter had been listening to the
conversation with a look of mild amusement. Now he
spoke for the first time. "Aren't you going to introduce the
fair damsel?"
Randal felt his cheeks redden. "This is Lys,"
he said. "She is of Occitania, and a true friend."
He
paused, and added, "I owe my life to her friendship."
Walter rose and bowed. "Then I'm in your debt as
well, Demoiselle Lys, since Randal
is my cousin. I'm Sir Walter of Doun." The
knight sat down again, and said, "A friend of Randal's
from Tarnsberg, are you? Can you do magic?"
"No magic," Lys replied. "But a little of
everything else. I've been everything from actress
to acrobat in my time, though mostly I make my
way with song."
Walter turned to Randal, and said, laughing, "I
think all Tarnsberg folk must be half-mad. I
find you, heir to a barony, wandering the land and mucking
out stables to earn your keep-and now here's a lady of the
Southlands, singing for hers."
Walter went back to sharpening his sword. Without
looking up from his task, he asked, "Will you be
attending the tourney tomorrow, Demoiselle Lys? his
"I don't know," she said. She glanced over at
Randal. "How long are you staying in Tattinham?"
"I'm here as my cousin's squire," he told
her. "I can't leave until the fighting's over."
"Then I'll be staying as well," she said. She
stood and slung the lute by its strap over her
shoulder. "But I have to leave you for now-there's an inn
full of travelers in Tattinham who've been
promised music with their supper."
After she'd left, Walter looked across the
campfire at Randal. "A gallant damsel."
"Yes," said Randal. "She is."
Walter looked at him a second longer in
silence, and then said, "She knows what happened in
Tarnsberg, doesn't she?"
Randal dropped his gaze to the little tongues of red
flame running through the coals of the campfire. He
remembered Master Laerg's tower room at the
Schola, and the demon that had tried to lap up the
blood running from his sword-slashed hand. If Lys
hadn't brought Master Madoc to his aid, the
demons would have taken him, blood and all.
"She knows," he said to Walter. "She was there." His
cousin put aside the whetstone he'd been using, and
looked down the blade of his sword, turning the
blade this way and that to check for nicks and dull
spots. The newly sharpened edges gleamed in the
firelight.
"If she knows all about it," Walter said at last,
"can't you trust me with at least a part of the story?"
Randal sighed. His cousin had helped him without
pressing for more information than he was willing to give-he
supposed he did owe Walter the rest of the tale.
"I was at the Schola in Tarnsberg," he began.
"Learning magic. I wasn't very good at
first, but I scraped through the classes and found a
master wizard who took me on as his apprentice."
"Madoc again?" asked Walter.
"No," said Randal. "I wish it had been ... the
master who taught me was a man called Laerg.
He was good at his work-I learned a lot from him, and
I learned it fast. But it turned out that Laerg had
plans of his own. He wanted to take control of the
kingdom, and he'd bargained with demons for the power to do
it."
Randal paused and poked at the fire with a splinter of
wood before going on. "Laerg had promised the
demons the blood of a wizard in return for their
help. My blood, as it turned out."
"You look like you've still got most of it," observed
Walter. "Is that when you cut your hand?" "Yes,"
said Randal. "He had a sword. Not for a
weapon-whatever he was planning to do, he was too much
of a wizard for that-but as a magical symbol of the
spell he was working to call the demon princes and
control them. But I killed him with it, instead."
Walter looked pleased. "Good for you, cousin." "The
Regents of the Schola didn't agree with you," said
Randal, with a crooked smile. "As a wizard, even
an apprentice, I'd forsworn the use of
any knightly weapon. So the Regents patted me
on the back with one hand and slapped me hard with the
other. First they passed me out of my apprenticeship
and made me a journeyman wizard, and then they
made me swear not to use any magic at all
until I got permission."
"If that's why you've been sleeping in stables and
letting yourself get beaten up by the likes of Sir
Reginald," Walter told him, "then I say you
ought to swallow your pride and come home until those
Regents of yours lift the ban."
"It's not like that," Randal said. "I can't just wait
around. I have to find a particular wizard, his
name's Balpesh, and he lives in the mountains
close to here-and ask his leave to do magic again.
Walter snorted. "And if you get yourself killed
wandering around without either sword or spell to protect
you, is it not their fault? A fine set of people, these
Regents, if you ask me."
The two cousins finished their supper in silence, put
out the cookfire, and went into the pavilion. Walter
rolled himself in his blankets and soon began
to snore. Randal, for his part, lay awake a while
longer, wondering why Master Madoc had wanted
Lys to meet him in Tattinham. He
fell asleep, still mulling over the possibilities
... and dreamed, and knew that he was dreaming.
He dreamed that he awoke and found the pavilion
empty, his cousin's pallet folded up and his
clothes and armor missing. Judging by the daylight
outside the pavilion, the hour was almost
mid-morning; the tourney would be starting soon.
Already, Randal could hear the high, yelping notes of
trumpets and hunting horns summoning the
combatants to the field.
I overslept,
he thought in the dream.
Walter is going to kill me if I don't find
him before the fighting starts.
He dressed, pulling on the surcoat he wore as
his cousin's squire, and hurried out into the camp. Like
the pavilion, the camp seemed strangely empty.
A cold breeze stirred the banners and sent the
walls of the pavilions billowing in and out, but Randal
saw no human movement anywhere. And no sound
came from the camp except for the sighing of the wind.
Once again, the horns sounded from the direction of the
tourney field.
Everybody
must be over there
already,
thought Randal,
and started toward the noise.
When he reached the field, he saw that the tourney
had almost begun. Knights in armor strode about
making last-minute checks and adjustments to weapons
and armor, taking practice swings at the air
to loosen muscles stiffened by sleep, arguing with
squires and grooms about the state of their horses.
Ladies in elegant gowns clustered under an awning
on one side of the field. Servants of all
sorts, wearing the colors of a score or more
different knights and noblemen, ran about on a
multitude of errands. Heralds in bright tabards
consulted their scrolls, conferred with each other in loud
voices, and consulted their scrolls again.
And all of them-knight and lady, highborn and
lowborn-were animals, though they walked like men.
Here a man took off his helmet and revealed the
muzzle and fangs of a gray wolf; there, a lady
turned in Randal's direction, and he saw the
pointed, vicious face of a weasel framed in her
linen wimple.
I don't like this,
thought Randal.
"Walter!" he called aloud. He began looking
about for his cousin's pine-tree shield. "Walter!"
he cried again.
Then, through the crowd, he spotted his cousin's
tall, armored form. Lys was with him, dressed as
Randal had never seen her, in the gown of a fine
lady. To Randal's relief, they both still had their
own faces, though neither Walter nor Lys appeared
to notice that the knight with whom they were speaking had the
bristly snout and small, angry eyes of a wild
boar.
"Walter! Lys!
was Randal shouted the names as loudly as he could, and
started running across the tourney field toward his
cousin and the girl. But neither one seemed to hear him;
instead, they nodded civilly at the boar knight and
moved away deeper into the crowd of beasts, out of
Randal's sight.
He ran after them, threading his way through the throng in the
direction they had gone. Always, they stayed just out of
reach, never giving him more than a glimpse of
Walter's ginger hair or Lys's cap of black
curls before vanishing again. He called out to his friends
again and again, but the voices of the beast-men drowned his
cries, and his ears were full of their harsh,
growling babble.
Then, suddenly, a high, human scream cut through the
air, and the crowd before him parted. It was Lys who had
screamed; the lute player stood motionless as a
statue, and Randal's cousin lay beaten and bleeding
at her feet.
V. Blood Sports
RANDAL CAME AWAKE with the sound of his own
outcry echoing in his ears.
Walter rolled to his feet, grasping his sword.
He looked alertly around him.
Early sunlight filtered through the material of the tent
and shed a pale gray light over his features. For a
moment, Randal seemed to see his cousin still covered with
blood; then the last traces of the nightmare faded.
Seeing no threat, Walter focused on Randal's
face. "What in the name of heaven and earth are you
yelling about?"
Randal drew a deep breath. "I had a dream."
"Well, have a quieter one next time, will you?"
"I'm not joking, Walter. I had a dream. This
tourney . . . there's something wrong here. I saw
it."
Walter looked at Randal with a puzzled
expression. "You saw what?"
"Trouble," said Randal. "Deceit. They were all
animals. ..."
"What in the world are you babbling about?"
Randal clenched his fists. His scarred hand ached in the
cold morning air. He forced himself to speak slowly,
in measured tones. "I'm talking about the future,
Walter. It comes to me sometimes, in dreams."
"Hold on a minute," said Walter, frowning.
"You said you couldn't do magic now."
"This isn't something I do," Randal told him
wearily. "It's something that happens to me whether I
want it or not. This time-don't fight today,
Walter. Something bad is going to happen. I know
it."
"How
do you know it, Randy? You never used to go in for
prophecies back at Doun."
"I hadn't spent three years at the Schola then,
either," said Randal. "And I tell you, I saw you
lying dead, or the next thing to it. Don't go out on
the field today-please."
Walter shook his head. "A fine fool I'll
look, won't I, when the heralds announce that
I'm not fighting because my squire had a bad
dream."
Randal looked at his cousin for a moment in silence.
He couldn't tell whether Walter believed him or
not. But the stubborn expression on the young knight's
face made it clear that further argument was useless.
"Marshal's call!" came a voice from outside the
pavilion. "Marshal's call in one hour! All
those who will fight today must gather on the field in one
hour!"
The herald moved to another part of the camp, repeating
his message as he went. Walter wrapped
his quilted arming coat around him. "Help me, will
you? I don't have much time."
Silently, Randal assisted his cousin with his armor.
Walter strapped on his sword and picked up his
helm and shield. He left the pavilion and
strode in the direction of the tourney field. Randal
watched him go.
I tried,
thought the young wizard. But the words gave him no comfort.
After a while, he left the now-empty camp and
made his way down to the field. The day was warm, and the
bright sunlight glittered off the steel of the
knights" armor and weapons. Banners and
surcoats made vivid splashes of color between the
blue sky overhead and the green turf
underfoot.
Randal looked about, half expecting to see the
animal faces from his dream. His cousin was nowhere in
sight; instead, he found Lys standing on the
sidelines of the field near the spot where Walter
had planted his banner. A cold shiver went through
Randal at the sight-she wore the same blue gown
that she'd worn in his dream.
He saw her start to frown as he approached.
"What's wrong?" she asked as soon as he came
within earshot. "You look dreadful this morning." "I
had a dream," he said.
Lys paled a little at his words. Her reaction
didn't surprise him. The lute player
remembered the last time such a dream had come to him.
He had nearly died, and Master Laerg had
nearly destroyed the School of Wizardry. So now
she wet her lips and asked in a low voice,
"What did you see?"
He told her. She looked around, as if expecting
the men and women standing near them to turn to beasts on the
spot, and then said, "What about your cousin? Didn't
you warn him?"
"Of course I warned him," said Randal. "But do you
have any idea how stubborn Walter is? I
might as well have been talking to myself."
"So what are you going to do?"
Randal shrugged. "Without my magic, what
can I
do except hope that this time I'm wrong?"
As he spoke, a cavalcade of mounted men thundered
onto the field, armed and armored, their banners
waving.
A herald addressed the new arrivals. "Duke
Thibault, are you and your vassals fighting today?"
"Not today," said the leader of the group. "We've
come to watch the sport, nothing more."
"I don't like this," said Randal, under his breath. "I
don't know what's wrong, but I don't like it."
"Neither do I," said Lys, "especially after what
you just told me. Wait, what's that happening?"
Two knights had gone into a marked-off section of the
field, and started cutting and slashing at one another
with broadswords.
"They're beginning the tourney with single combats," said
Randal. "Those two will fight until one of them
yields."
Lys frowned. "Fight about what?"
"Nothing in particular, most of the time," a voice
cut in before Randal could answer. Sir
Guillaume, wearing his armor but not his shield and
helmet, strolled over to join the two younger people. The
knight went on, "Sometimes one man or the other will
have a real grievance. But usually they just fight for the
practice or for the honor of winning."
Even as Guillaume finished speaking, another
voice carried to them across the field, loud and
confident. "I challenge you, Sir Walter of
Doun!"
"Oh, no," said Randal. "Not Sir Reginald."
Guillaume looked puzzled. "What's wrong with
him?"
Randal chose his words carefully. "He beat a
sta2oy a couple of nights ago, and Walter
made him stop. He's probably still nursing a
grudge."
As Randal watched, Walter and Sir Reginald
went out onto the field. The marshal cried out,
"My lords, do honor to the duke our patron," and the
two knights flourished their swords toward the
castle that rose in the distance above the trees.
"Time was," said Sir Guillaume, "that marshals
in Brecelande would begin a bout by calling for honor
to the King."
"Do you remember those days?" asked Lys.
No king had ruled in Brecelande since the High
King had died and his infant daughter had vanished
years before.
"Oh, no." Guillaume laughed. "Do I look
that old? I heard the tale from my father."
The marshal cried out, "Do honor to your noble
opponent."
The two knights saluted each other by striking their
swords against their shields with a ringing blow.
"Then for honor and glory, lay on!" the marshal
cried.
For a moment, neither man moved. Then Randal,
watching, heard Lys gasp as Walter slipped his
shield off his left arm and tossed it away onto the
grass.
"Nice," murmured Sir Guillaume in an
appreciative tone as Walter gripped his sword
in both hands, with the blade held at the vertical in
front of him. "Very nice."
"I don't understand," said Lys. "Why did he
throw away the shield?"
"He's using the sword two-handed, like a
greatsword," said Sir Guillaume. "That puts
more strength into his blows, and allows him to attack from
more directions. But it's risky--the blade
has to be both sword and shield at once-and only
a man confident of his own skill would choose to fight
that way in a challenge bout."
Sir Guillaume sounded admiring, but the knight's
words only served to renew Randal's feelings of coming
doom.
Walter's fighting like that to show the whole world what he
thinks of Sir Reginald,
the young wizard realized.
If the sta2oy Reginald was roughing up hadn't
been me, Walter might have just fought him
sword-and-shield and been content. But no, he's
decided to rub it in...
Out on the field, the two knights circled,
keeping their distance. Then Reginald stepped forward and
cut at Walter's helmet with an overhead blow.
"It's all a matter of style," Sir
Guillaume explained further. His eyes were intent
on the field.
"Walter carries a hand-and-a-half sword-it's
longer and heavier than Sir Reginald's
broadsword, but not so long and heavy that it can't also
be used
one-handed by someone strong enough."
"And is he?" asked Lys. "Strong enough,
I
mean.
Randal thought back to the fight against the bandits and how
Walter had swung that sword with one hand, the long
blade arcing through the air in a steely blur.
"Yes," he said. "Walter is strong enough."
Meanwhile, Walter had blocked Reginald's first
blow easily, but the attack had been nothing more than
a feint. Now Reginald's blade dropped and
became a cut aimed at Walter's rib cage.
But Randal's cousin pushed his own blade over and
down to block the blow. The swords met, singing, and
then sprung apart.
Walter swung into a shield-side attack on
Reginald's leg. Reginald pivoted his shield
downward and blocked, but Walter used the speed of the
rebound to come around in a blinding half-circle toward
Reginald's helm on the sword side.
Reginald stepped back and blocked with his own
blade, but the superior length and weight of
Walter's sword told against him. The strength of the
two-handed blow forced the other blade downward to ring
against Sir Reginald's helm.
Reginald opened his shield away from his body
to punch the metal rim against Walter's
armored chest. But Walter pivoted with the swinging
shield, and swung his blade with all the strength in his
shoulders, twisting his body to add the power of his hips
to the edge of his sword.
The blow took Sir Reginald in the back of the
helm as he stepped forward. Reginald stumbled, his
lunge turning into a fall, and lay face down on
the field.
Still holding his sword with his left hand, Walter
reached down, pulled on Sir Reginald's
shoulder, and turned him onto his back. Then he
placed the point of his sword at the eye slit in
Sir Reginald's helm.
"Yield you, sir knight."
Sir Reginald's gauntleted hand relaxed,
letting go of the hilt of his sword. "I yield."
Sir Walter helped Sir Reginald to his
feet. Then the two men walked to the colored ribbon
that marked the edge of the field, ducked under, and
vanished amid the other knights, leaving the heralds
to mark down the results of the bout.
"That's it?" Lys asked, in disbelief.
"It's more than you seem to think," Sir
Guillaume answered. "Sir Walter now owns
Reginald's arms and armor. If
Reginald wants them after today, he'll have to buy them
back."
A short while later, Walter came over to join
Randal and the others. The young knight carried his
helmet in the crook of his left arm. Sweat ran
down from his hair and left streaks in the dust on his
face.
"Water," he said hoarsely to Randal.." That was
hot work out there."
Randal hurried to fill a goblet from one of the barrels
of drinking water set up around the edges of
the field. As he handed the goblet to his cousin, he
muttered, "Have you fought enough now?"
"No," said Walter. He drained the goblet and
held it out again. "I'm having a good time, and I'm
doing well. How else am I going to get the
practice that I need to fight well in war when it
comes?"
"If it comes, you mean."
Walter shook his head. "When."
The heralds began to cry the arming for the grand
melee, when all the knights at the tourney would
take part in a mock battle. Walter drank one
final
goblet of water, then mounted his horse and
rode
away to join the others. This time he took his shield.
The afternoon wore on. Shouts and sounds of
passages-at-arms came across the field, and
sometimes two knights would fight within sight, but for
Randal and Lys, alone now that Sir Guillaume
was fighting among the rest, the afternoon went slowly.
From time to time, one knight or another would escort a
prisoner back from the field. Walter appeared
once, bringing a prisoner with him, and Randal asked
him how it was going.
"Fair enough," Walter replied. "I've
captured this one, and two others. When they ransom
their horses and armor, I'll be able to replace
everything I lost in the fire."
Suddenly, Randal noticed movement among the
spectators on the field-Duke Thibault's
troop was mounting. "I've changed my mind," the
duke called to the chief marshal as he and his men
spurred their horses onto the field. "We
tourney today!"
"That's not fair!" protested Lys. "His troop
is
fresh, and everybody else has been fighting since
this morning."
"Who said anything was supposed to be fair?" asked
Randal bitterly. "I was right. This tourney is
full of animals."
"I could have told you that," Walter responded with a
brief laugh. "I've seen them before. Nothing that I
haven't handled before, either."
Randal's cousin turned his horse and rode back
into the melee. Not long after, Sir Guillaume
came out of the press, followed by Duke Thibault.
The young knight had been captured; he took off his
helm and chain mail and waited with the other prisoners
in the safety zone at the end of the field.
Then, as the day grew older, Walter reappeared,
leading another man's horse by the reins. His
captive was easily recognized: Duke
Thibault himself.
Randal watched as Walter galloped the duke and
himself over the plain, fending off rescue attempts
by the duke's men along the way. Randal could see that
Walter had the duke's sword tucked into his own
belt. Walter swung down from his horse, as did
the duke. A crowd of knights pressed around them.
Several men shouted at once, and the crowd surged
back. Randal started forward, knowing with a cold
certainty that he was going to see his cousin
Walter lying still on the ground. As in his dream, but
far worse-the blood welled out of the back of
Walter's right shoulder, painting his surcoat a dark
and ugly red.
I tried to warn him,
thought Randal. Already he was
running across the field, with Lys close behind him.
I
tried ... what am I going to do now?
"What happened?" he demanded as he sank down
to his knees beside his cousin and struggled to remove
Walter's helm.
"Somebody hit him from behind with a mace." Randal
recognized the voice of Sir Guillaume.
Without bothering to look around, he asked, "Did you
see who did this?"
"No. Just the mace." Sir Guillaume paused
a moment. "But I saw Sir Reginald nearby
when it happened."
Randal lifted his cousin's heavy steel helm free
and laid it aside. Walter's face looked gray
and clammy, and his lips were blue.
"We need a healer," Randal said. "Lys?"
"I'll find one," she promised, and ran off.
Randal sat back on his heels and looked
about for
help in carrying his cousin back to his pavilion.
Duke Thibault was nowhere in sight-it appeared that
Walter's noble prisoner had used the confusion
to disappear without paying the ransom for his horse and
armor. Randal's lips tightened. I
have half a mind to track him down and ask for it
myself,
he thought.
But with the shape Walter's in, I can't afford the
time.
Randal turned and glanced up at Sir
Guillaume. The young knight appeared pale and
anxious. "Help me get him back to the
pavilion," Randal
said. "If we can get him up on a shield ..
Working together, the knight and the young wizard wrestled a
shield under Walter's unconscious body. They
carried him back to the pavilion he and
Randal shared. There they began, slowly and carefully,
to remove his armor. The heavy coat of chain mail
was the hardest-it covered Walter from neck to knees,
and threatened to press his breath out with its weight. At
last it came off, and Randal saw that the garment
underneath it was drenched with blood.
At least he's still breathing,
thought Randal. The
young wizard didn't want to think about what might
lie under the blood-soaked clothing. The blow had come
from a mace, Sir Guillaume had said, and a mace
was an ugly weapon: a spiked metal club that
crushed flesh and splintered the bone beneath.
Randal was still trying to work up enough courage to peel
away the quilted tunic when the healwife arrived.
Lys entered the pavilion close behind her.
"I came back as fast as I could," said Lys in
a breathless voice. "Mother Shipton is the best
healwife in town. I found her tending the day's
cuts and bruises, and convinced her we had something more
serious here."
The healwife was already kneeling beside Walter. "You
shouldn't have moved him," she told Randal and
Guillaume. "A fragment of bone could puncture
his lung, or cut a blood vessel inside, and
then no skill on earth could cure him."
But despite her words, she began to examine the
wounded man, pulling the quilted tunic away from his
shoulder the better to see the injury. Randal looked
down at the ground, feeling ill, and then forced himself
to look back again; behind him, Sir
Guillaume turned away.
The healwife looked at Randal. "Get me some
water," she said, "and some light. Then leave, so that
I can weave my spells in peace."
Randal obeyed. Then, with Lys and Sir Guil,
laume, he waited outside the pavilion for the
healwife to be done with her work. Night had fallen
by the time Mother Shipton emerged from the tent, and when she
did, her shoulders sagged and her footsteps sounded
weary.
Randal wet his lips. "Well?"
"I've done the best I could," she said. "But I
doubt that he'll thank me for it."
Randal felt himself grow cold. "Why not? What's
wrong?"
"Whoever struck him has a powerful arm," said
the healwife. "The shoulder blade is shattered beyond
my ability to mend."
"Will he die?" asked Lys.
The healwife gave a tired shrug. "Don't let
him
move for six weeks, and he'll heal as much as he
ever will. All the pieces of bone are in place-that
much, at least, I was able to do. But it would take a
master wizard to make that shoulder work again."
VI. Into the Mountains
STILL SHAKING HER head, the healwife walked
away. Randal, Guillaume, and Lys re-entered
the pavilion. Walter lay on his stomach, the
injured arm bound to his side with strips of cloth.
A single candle-lantern gave enough light for Randal
to see that his cousin was awake.
Walter's hazel eyes, dull now with pain,
focused on Randal. "I should have listened to you."
Randal couldn't think of anything to say. Instead, it was
Lys who spoke-and to Randal, not Walter.
"You studied at the Schola, Randal-
do
something."
Sir Guillaume looked startled. "What's this?
A wizard?"
Randal ignored him. "You know I can't," he said
to Lys. "And even if I could, what the healwife
said is true. Curing a wound like this would require the
services of a master wizard, and not just any master at
that."
"Well, then," said Lys. "You're going to be
seeing a master wizard, aren't you?"
Randal laughed without humor. "I'm hardly in a
position to ask Balpesh for any favors."
"You're not," said Walter slowly. "But there's
nothing to stop me from asking on my own." "You need
to stay here and finish healing," Randal told his cousin.
"Mother Shipton said-was
"I'm not deaf," said Walter. "I heard what she
said. I'm going with you."
Randal thought of the mountain path to Balpesh's tower as
Master Madoc had described it to him at the
Schola, and shook his head. "Horses can't go where
I'm going."
"Then I'll walk." Walter's face was set in
lines of pain, but his voice was firm. More
quietly, he added, "You wouldn't want to leave me
alone among the wild beasts, would you? Whoever wanted
me down wanted me dead."
Randal couldn't argue with him. Sir Guillaume
asked quietly, "Did you see who struck you?"
"No," said Walter. "Just a sort of blur. I
got my
head out of the way, but my shoulder wasn't so
lucky." He closed his eyes for a moment, then
opened them again and looked at Guillaume. "Take
my armor and horses, and hold them for me. If I
don't come back, they're yours."
Throughout the night, either Randal or Lys
stayed awake by Walter's side. They brought him
water to drink, and eased him into more comfortable positions.
In the graying morning, Randal wrapped a long
cloak around his cousin's body, over the
blood-caked arming coat. Together, Lys and
Randal helped Walter put his boots on, and then,
at his insistence, strapped his sword around his hips.
"A knight is never without his sword," Walter
said, more to himself than to anyone. Then he stood. He
swayed, caught himself, and stood straighter.
The three walked out of the sleeping camp. Low fog,
mixed with smoke from the campfires, shrouded the
ground. Most of the combatants at the tourney had
been to a feast the night before, and the camp slept
deeply. Without a sound, the three friends were away.
Before the morning was half gone, Randal felt certain
that bringing Walter along had been a bad mistake.
As long as the way remained clear, Walter was able
to match the slow pace Randal set, although the wounded
knight's face was pale, and his mouth set hard.
But a little before mid-morning, the way to Balpesh's
tower split off from the main road to follow the course
of a swift-flowing stream that ran down the mountains.
Randal followed the directions Madoc had given
him at the Schola, traveling parallel to the
watercourse on a narrow path that led uphill along
the bottom of a deep ravine forested with birch and
aspen.
Their pace slowed as the path climbed upward, and
Walter grew still more pale and tightlipped. But they
made steady progress, nonetheless, until they
rounded a bend in the path and saw a rockfall
blocking the way. The pile of dirt and boulders
stretched from the steep slope on their right to the
white water rushing by on their left, covering the path
completely.
They halted. Walter sank to the ground and leaned with
his good shoulder against the support of the rock face.
His eyes were closed, and Randal could hear his long,
shaking breaths. Lys stood over him with her hands on
her hips, and looked from Randal to Walter and back
again.
"Now what?" she asked. "We can't climb that
pile of boulders-not with one of us already hurt."
Randal shook his head and considered Lys for a
moment. Once again, the young entertainer had worn the
boy's clothing she preferred for traveling, and
carried her lute slung over her shoulder in a
leather case. Of the three of them, he had to admit,
she knew the most about life on the road-if
she said the rockslide couldn't be climbed, it
couldn't.
"Then we have to clear the way," he said. "Walter,
lend me your sword for a few minutes."
His cousin's eyes snapped open. "You're not going
to use my blade for a crowbar!"
"No," said Randal. "I'm going to use it for an
ax. One of those saplings will make a good lever if
I can cut it down."
"An ax," said Walter. He shook his head.
"There's wizardry for you-making a knight's weapon
into a woodcutter's tool."
Randal drew a deep breath. "There are a dozen
magical ways to get across that rockfall," he
said, "from levitating us over it to summoning an earth
elemental to throwing all those rocks to the other
side of the stream. As it is, I have to do this the hard
way. Will you please give me the sword?"
He paused and saw with a touch of shame that Walter was
already trying to draw the heavy blade left-handed.
"Sorry," Randal muttered as he took the offered
weapon. The scar on his palm ached as he curled his
hand into a tighter grip. The blade was heavyfar
heavier than he'd expected-but just grasping the hilt
brought memories. He could see the rich
velvet of Master Laerg's ceremonial robe,
smell the pungent reek of incense, and hear the
frightful echo of the chant that opened the gate to the
demonic plane.
Thrusting the images aside, he strode over to one
of the saplings near the water's edge and swung the
sword against the tree's slender trunk.
The shock of the blow made his hand sting, and he heard
Walter's voice from behind him. "It'll work better
if you use both hands."
Randal put his left hand around the bottom of the
sword's hilt, and swung again with all his force. A
chip flew from the tree. He ignored the ache in his
right hand, the sweat rolling down his back under his
tunic-everything-as he cut again and again into the growing
notch.
Soon the small tree fell to the ground, and Randal
stripped off the branches. Then he and Lys together
began to lever rocks off the path and into the
stream. As they worked, they talked. "Are you sure this
is the right road?" Lys asked. "I'd hate to do
all this
work and then find out we were going the wrong way.
"It matches the directions I got back at the
Schola," said Randal. "disBut this
rockslide ... how long do you think it's been
here?"
They put their weight onto the lever, and more stones
rolled off the pile and down into the water. "It
looks recent to me," said Lys.
Randal nodded. "That's what I thought." "Do you think
it means anything?" Lys asked. "Everything means
something," Randal answered. "The trick is figuring
out what."
He straightened and looked about. Rubble still covered the
path, but the newly made gap revealed the way
continuing on the far side. Where the rockfall had
been, a smaller pile of loose rock, uneven but
passable, remained. At least their efforts had opened
a way that could be scrambled over, rather than climbed.
"That's as good as it's going to get," Randal said.
"Let's go."
He helped Walter to his feet, and then aided him
in resheathing the sword. Randal and Lys took up
positions on either side of the wounded knight to brace
him over the uncertain ground, and all three strode
through the newly cleared gap. The going was slow, with
smaller rocks shifting under their feet as they
crossed the loose heap of stones and dirt, but
nobody stumbled or fell.
Then they were past the rockfall and walking more
easily. Randal looked at his cousin. Walter's
face was ash-colored under the tan and dirt.
"Can you go on?" Randal asked.
Walter nodded, but Randal saw with a chill of
foreboding that his eyes were fever bright. Small beads
of perspiration stood out on Walter's fore head, and the
young knight's jaw was set, as if he held back
a cry of pain by strength of will alone.
The path continued upward. Soon it turned away from
the stream, and cut sharply uphill to the right, making
one switchback after another as it climbed up the
side of a steep cliff. On one side of the path,
the cliffs towered up to the sky; on the other, the rock
fell away in a sheer drop to the stream below.
As the trail climbed upward, it broke into a
series of carved stairs. Randal remembered the
stairs from the directions he'd been given;
Balpesh's hermitage wasn't far away. Even
now, he thought that he could see a stone tower in the
distance ahead, framed in a gap between two mountain
peaks.
But is it close enough?
he wondered. Walter was lurching from side to side with
each step, and Lys had moved to support
him with a shoulder under his left arm. And the air was growing
chilly. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, the tall
peaks cut off much of the sun, and the breeze coming down
the snow-capped mountains made Randal shiver.
Walter never complained, but Randal knew the cold
wind had to be cutting through him without mercy.
"Let's take a rest," Randal said. "We could
all use
one. Lys gave him a quick, grateful glance, and
helped
Walter lower himself to the ground. Then she came
forward to join Randal. "Are we going to make it to that
tower before dark?" she asked in an undertone.
"We're close," Randal told her. "But if I
remember right, we have to cross the stream first."
"How?"
"There should be a bridge," he said. "Up where the
gorge starts to narrow again."
"I hope you're right," Lys said. She glanced
over where Walter sat huddled inside his cloak,
then turned back to Randal with a grave expression.
"Because I don't think your cousin can last through a
night out in the open."
They went on climbing the cliff path step by painful
step. Then, abruptly, they turned a
corner, and saw that the path continued on the far side
of the stream.
The two paths were connected by pieces of what had
once been a stone bridge. The central span had
collapsed, leaving a gap of some thirty feet between
the broken ends still standing. A tall, lightningstruck
fir tree stood beside the bridge on the far bank
of the ravine. Nothing stood on the near side but a
broken stump.
"That's it," Walter said. "We're stopped."
Randal looked down. Two thousand feet below, the
threadlike current tumbled in white water over
sharp rocks. He dropped a stone. It vanished from
sight as it fell, and he never saw a splash nor
heard a sound. He looked back at the wreckage
of the bridge.
"No," he said. "That dead tree is taller than
the
gap is wide. If we can get it down, we'll have
our bridge."
"In case you hadn't noticed," Lys pointed out,
"the tree is on the wrong side."
"I know," said Randal. "I'll have to jump across."
Lys shook her head. "Wrong," she said. "I'll
jump."
Randal stared at her. "You?"
"Me," she said. She looked pale and frightened, but
her eyes were serious. "I'm lighter, and I've
worked as an acrobat. If you jump and miss,
it'll all be over. No magic, no healing,
nothing. If I miss . . . what's another lute
player, more or less?"
She unslung her lute and thrust it into Randal's
hands. "Here, hold this."
Without further discussion, she went off the path, past
the ruined bridge, heading for the place where the gap between
the two cliffs was narrowest. She clung to the rock
face at places to do it, but she soon reached a
point where nothing separated the cliffs except five
yards of empty air.
"She'll never make it," muttered Walter.
"Yes, she will," said Randal. I
hope,
he added to himself. Lys was surefooted and stronger
than she looked, but the jump was longer than any he
himself had ever tried, with a long drop to the water and
stone below.
Biting his lip, he looked again at the shattered
remnants of the bridge. The edge of the broken stone
showed unweathered rock and fresh dirt on the
line of the break. The wood of the broken tree stump
to his right was fresh and white. He shook
his head. This bridge hadn't failed more than three
days earlier; probably at the same time as the
rockslide on the trail behind them.
A shiver, brought on not just by the wind, moved up his
spine. He was getting a bad feeling about what he
might find if they ever reached the wizard's tower.
He turned away from the bridge and saw that up
ahead, Lys had arrived at the narrowest part of the
gap. She waved at him, then curled into a ball and
flung herself over the empty space.
She missed the path by inches. Randal watched
helplessly as she scrabbled at the loose rock with
her outstretched hands. I
should have tried the jump myself,
he thought.
No matter what she said.
Her fingers caught a small ledge just before the cliff
turned vertical, and she came to a halt amid
dust and rolling stones. Pulling herself up inch by inch,
she got a foot into a crack and began to crawl up
the steep slope. At last she threw a leg over
the edge of the carved path, rolled to the top, and lay
full length on the ground for a moment. Then
she stood, and ran down the path to the far end of the
bridge.
She pushed against the lightning-struck tree. It
swayed a little. "The roots aren't deep," she
called. "I'm going to push it over."
Lys put her back to it, and began rocking the dead
tree in place. With a crackle and a crash, it
toppled over. With its top branches caught on the
cliff where Randal and Walter waited, it stuck,
its base narrowly wedged among the rocks on
Lys's side.
"There's our bridge," Randal said. "Let's go."
Randal helped Walter to his feet. They walked
to the tree. Walter looked at the makeshift
bridge and shook his head.
"This may not hold," he said. "I'll cross first.
If the tree breaks with you on it, I'm likely
to die before I can get back to Tattinham alone.
If it breaks when I'm on it, I'll only go a
little sooner. And better I should die than you
anyway."
Randal started to protest, and then stopped. If
Balpesh couldn't-or wouldn't-heal Walter, the young
knight would never be able to use a sword
again.
No wonder he's taking such chances,
Randal thought.
He doesn't really care whether this journey kills
him or not.
In silence, Randal watched as Walter made his
slow, painful way across the gap. Unable to use his
arms to balance himself, the young knight stepped carefully
around the protruding branches, while the ends of the
tree shifted and worked against the stones on either side.
The wind blowing up from the gorge fluttered the
bottom of his arming coat, and blew his hair across his
face. He reached the far end and collapsed against
Lys. Gently, she helped him sit again.
Randal slung Lys's lute across his own shoulder and
stepped out onto the tree. He could feel it
vibrate under him, and hear the the rocks grating under
the branches. The cold wind flowed past him. He
looked down once, then hurriedly fixed his gaze
on the far bank.
Even as Randal reached the far side, the tree
began to wobble. The roots pulled all the way out
of the earth with a snapping sound, and the trunk fell into the
gorge. Randal sat down hard, and didn't dare
look to follow its progress.
"That's it, then," said Lys. "No going
back." From this side of the bridge, the way
to Balpesh's tower was smooth and easy. The path led
away from the edge of the cliff and became a steep set
of steps carved into the rock. The three reached the
rise at the top of the stairs, and found themselves looking
down at a small pocket of fertile ground set
in the midst of the harsh mountain landscape.
A stream flowed through the valley, past a wattle
fenced farmyard containing a barn and a henhouse and a
vegetable garden. In the center of the farm yard, a
stone tower stood out stark black against the
gray-and-white mountain that rose behind it. Even now,
the sun was dropping behind that peak, and long purple
shadows lay across the little valley.
"Well, here we are," Randal said.
And not a moment too soon,
he added silently. Walter was swaying where he
stood. Randal and Lys ex changed glances, and
moved to support him on ei ther side.
They walked down the gentle slope toward the fence.
A simple gate, designed to keep animals
in, rather than people out, blocked the path. Randal opened
it and stepped through. He looked around the farmyard, and
saw a pair of nanny goats, their udders heavy,
waiting on their milking stands and bleating
unhappily. In the pigsty, a sow rooted in an
empty slop trough.
I don'
t like the looks
of this,
Randal thought.
But this is Balpesh
His
s tower, all right
.
It has to be.
His uneasiness grew as they walked up the flagstone
path toward the front door of the tower. The tower's
windows were shuttered, and the door was closed. No
latch showed on the outside. Randal pounded on the
door with his fist.
"Hello!" he shouted. "Open the door!"
Nobody answered. Lys helped Walter sit
down, and then picked up a stone beside the path. She
pounded on the door with the stone, and added her voice
to Randal's.
Randal looked at her hands. They were red with blood.
"Why didn't you tell me you hurt yourself climbing
that rock back there?"
"She didn't," came Walter's faint
voice from behind them. "The blood is mine. The wound
opened again when I crossed the bridge.
Randal and Lys hammered on the door with even greater
force. "Balpesh!" Randal shouted. "Let us in!
We have a wounded man here! Help us!"
Only the echoes answered from the cold and empty
hills.
VII. The Tower
"NOW WHAT?" asked Lys.
Randal shook his head. "I don't know. Stay here,
and I'll take a look around."
He set out to explore the farmyard. First he
circled the base of the tower, but found no other doors
and no windows lower than what would be the second
level inside. He looked into all the outbuildings
and again found nothing.
Nothing I can p
ut a name to,
he told himself. But three years at the School of
Wizardry had strengthened in him senses that most people
never used. Long before he finished his survey of the little
farm, his skin had risen in gooseflesh, and the hair
bristled on the back of his neck.
Something magical is going on here. I can feel it.
He came back around to the tower door, and
saw Walter half lying on the threshold, leaning with
his good shoulder against the closed door.
A few feet away, Lys prowled up and down the
flagstone path like a nervous cat. She jerked around
at the sound of his footsteps. "Oh, it's you," she
said. "Did you find anything?"
"Nothing," he said. "There's no way in except that
door."
Walter gave a faint laugh. "I suppose a
battering ram is out of the question."
Randal looked at him. "Take it from me, cousin,
you don't break down a master wizard's front
door and expect him to think kind thoughts about you afterward.
And besides, this place has more spells on it than a
dog has fleas."
"Spells or no spells," said Lys, "if we
don't get inside before dark, we'll be sleeping in
the barn with the goats. Unless you prefer the chicken
coop."
Her voice was light, but Randal didn't miss the
meaningful glance she sent in Walter's direction.
We have to get him inside,
Randal thought.
The outbuildings aren't going to be warm enough once the
sun goes down and the night wind starts
blowing.
"I've slept in enough stables on my way here,"
Randal said. "But I draw the line at goats and
chickens. If you know a way to get in, I'm all
for it."
"There's a proverb in Occitania," said Lys. was
"If the door's locked, try a window."
Give me a boost up to the top of the door, and
I'll see what I can do about those shutters."
Randal made a stirrup with his clasped hands; Lys
stepped into it, and he lifted her upward. The lute
player put her fingers on the top of the lintel above
the door and pulled herself up. She balanced
sideways on the lintel, then swung herself over to a
crack between two stones in the tower wall. From there,
she worked her way up to the nearest window, and balanced
precariously on the narrow sill.
"I think I can lift the shutters out of place,"
she called down to Randal.
"Do it," he told her, "and let's not think about
what spells Balpesh might have cast on them." But
nothing untoward happened as Lys worked
the shutters free and dropped them to the ground. The
window opening revealed was tall and narrow, and so
small that even the slender lute player had
to turn sidewise to wiggle through. Once through, she
vanished. For long moments, there was no sound from the
tower. Then the front door grated open, and Lys
stood in the gap.
"Come on in," she said.
They went in. The first floor of the tower was clearly
reserved for storage, though now it stood empty
except for a few barrels and a couple of chests. A
well opened in the center of the floor, and a bucket
hung suspended from a rope over it. A circular
stairway led up to the next level.
On the floor above, they came to a large,
highceilinged kitchen with a generous fireplace. One
window stood open, showing where Lys had gained her
entry. A high-backed bench stood near the
fireplace; Walter sank down onto it.
"It's dark in here," he muttered, "and cold." The
young knight was shivering inside his thick woolen
cloak, and his teeth chattered. Randal and Lys
exchanged glances. Then Lys moved quickly to throw
open more of the kitchen shutters, and Randal knelt in
front of the hearth. The fire had burned down
to white ashes. Randal touched them.
"It's out," he murmured. "This hasn't been lit
for days."
Lys came away from the windows. "Look at the
table," she said, and pointed. "Whatever happened, it
came suddenly."
Randal looked, and saw that the kitchen table had been
laid for a meal-but the food had congealed untouched on
the plates. Again, the cold finger of warning stroked
down his spine.
This place is thick with magic,
he thought.
Serious magic, not just the guards every wizard puts
up as a matter of course.
"Let's get a fire going," he said. "And look
for blankets."
He took some firewood from a pile next to the
fireplace, and laid the sticks on the hearthstone.
As he did so, he noticed without surprise that the
iron pot hanging above the fire had boiled dry,
and the contents had burned thick in the bottom of the
vessel.
He took out his tinderbox and struck a spark
to ignite the kindling. "Being the slowest apprentice
at the Schola had its advantages," he commented
to Walter as he fed slivers of wood to the flame.
"It was two years, at least, before I had enough power
to light so much as a candle. In the meantime,
I got good at doing it the hard way."
By the time he had a blaze going, Lys returned with
an armload of bedding. She and Randall made a
pallet for Walter in front of the fire, and helped
him to lie down. Randal flinched at the sight of the
fresh blood, dark and slick, along the right side
of
Walter's already blood-encrusted arming coat, but he
said nothing.
Walter knew he was courting death when he started out
this morning,
the young wizard thought.
There's nothing you can tell him that he doesn't already
know.
He covered his cousin with one of the blankets Lys
had brought. "Did you find any candles?" he asked
her. "We may need some later."
"There aren't any downstairs," she said. "That's as
far as I looked. I don't mind telling you,
Randal, this place makes me jumpy."
"I'm not surprised," said Randal, with a crooked
smile. "But we're going to need light before long."
He stood up from where he'd been kneeling in
front of the hearth, and brushed the dust off his knees.
"Why don't you keep an eye on the
fire for a while? I have to search this place anyway,
so I might as well look for candles while I'm
doing it."
Lys didn't say anything for a moment. Then she
shook her head and drew the small eating knife she
carried in a sheath at her belt. "If you're going
to be poking around upstairs," she said, "then I'm
coming with you. You may be forbidden to use weapons, but
I'm not."
Then Walter spoke from where he lay on the pallet
by the fire. "Neither am I. And this place is too
quiet for my liking. Cousin, could you put my
sword by my left hand?"
Randal did as Walter asked, without comment, even
though he doubted that the wounded knight had enough strength
left to even lift the blade, let
alone fight with it. Then Randal and Lys set out
to explore the tower.
First they went downstairs to the storage room below and
barred the tower door from the inside. Then they headed
back up the spiral staircase, bypassing the
kitchen and climbing as far up as they could. It was dark
there, in the center of the tower, and Randal went by feel
most of the way. At the top, he found the end of the
staircase by hitting his head against the ceiling
above.
He backed down a few steps and felt for a door.
Finding one, he pushed it open. By the faint light that
came from around the edges of a shuttered window, Randal
saw "a small room containing a bed and a small
trunk. The bed hadn't been slept in. Randal
opened the window, and found himself looking down at the
farmstead from a considerable height.
"Nothing here," he said to Lys. "Let's work our
way down."
They made their way back down the stairway,
checking each room as they came to it. In one of the
rooms, Randal found what appeared to be the
wizard's study. A tall bookcase stood against
the outer wall, between two windows. A magic
circle, a small one, covered a portion of the
floor. Burned out candles, set around the circle,
marked the four main directions. A wooden box
filled with still more candles
lay on the table, holding open a book written in
thin, spidery handwriting.
"Light for the night," said Lys. She reached out a
hand, and then paused. "Is it safe to touch them?"
Randal shrugged. "Without casting a spell
myself, I can't be sure." He dipped
into the box and took out a double handful. "There's no
enchantment on them that I can feel, anyway."
He paused for a second, his hand halting in midair
above the wooden box. The handwriting in the book beneath
was in the language of Brecelande, not in the Old
Tongue that wizards used for most of their spells and
scholarly writings.
It is worse than I thought,
read the first line, before the words disappeared under the box
of candles.
We must take immediate ...
The box obscured the rest, except for part of
another line at the bottom of the right-hand page.
... here. But time does not remain to call together ...
Lys spoke from close to Randal's side. "Have you
found something?"
"Maybe," he said. "I'll come back and read it
later. But first we have to check out the other rooms."
By the time Randal and Lys returned to the kitchen,
night had fallen outside the tower. They lit one
of the candles, and made a plain but filling supper out
of sausage and hard cheese from the pantry shelf.
Randal brought Walter's share over to him, but the
wounded knight only shook his head weakly.
"I'm sorry, Randal, I don't think
I could get it down."
"Don't worry about it," said Randal. He put a
hand on Walter's forehead as he spoke; the skin
felt cold and clammy to his touch. "Just rest. I
have to go back upstairs and see to something."
Randal took two candles from Lys, lit one from
the fire, and headed back upstairs to the workroom.
The few lines he had read in the open book had
convinced him that the volume held a key to the
mysteries of Balpesh's tower. Inside the
workroom, he plunked the candle down onto the desk
in a puddle of wax, moved the empty candle box
to one side, and began reading the book from the beginning.
As he had suspected, the book was Master
Balpesh's magical journal. The first half of the
book dealt with magical researches so advanced that
Randal hardly understood what they were about.
Interspersed with the magical records he found
accounts of the farm and similar mundane things.
Sometime during his reading, a light rain started
outside. The wind blew clouds across the sky,
blotting out the stars. The wind veered and set the candle
flame wavering. Randal stood, closed the shutter,
then sat and continued to read.
Then, toward the middle of the book, a line
jolted Randal awake.
A great heaviness fills me. Trouble is brewing
at the Schola. I can feel it, but all attempts
at scrying are blocked, and the future is confused.
I see a tree growing in the library of
Tarnsberg, but what fruit it bears, I cannot
guess.
Again the ghostly fingers raised the hair on the back
of Randal's neck. The date of the entry was the same
as the day that Laerg had taken Randal as his
apprentice-the day when Laerg's magic had aided
Randal in creating a tree in the library of the
Schola; the day when Randal had first begun to use his
magical abilities to their full extent.
Randal read on.
My choice was correct,
said an entry
from six months before.
The
unpromising
apprentice
that Master
Madoc presented
has borne out my predictions.
Now he
has been barred
from wizardry as punishment for
daring
to wield a sword.
Randal put his head in his hands.
Then there's no
hope,
he thought.
Balpesh knows everything, and I was condemned
before I
even set out.
From the sound, the rain seemed to be pouring down
outside. Randal could hear it lashing at the closed
shutters of the room. A feeling of despair swept
over him. Suddenly, reading further seemed useless.
He stood up and walked back downstairs, taking
the candle with him. When he entered the kitchen, he found
Lys singing, her clear alto voice floating over
the silvery ripple of the lute strings:
"If you will forsake your house-carpenter And come along
with me,
I'll take you to where the grass grows green On
the banks of the deep north sea."
She broke off the song as he entered, and turned an
eager face in his direction. "What have you
found?"
He sat down heavily on the chair by the kitchen
table. "That we don't have a chance," he said, "and we
never did have one. Balpesh already knows what
happened back at Tarnsberg. And he agrees with the
Regents that I should be banned from wizardry.
We came all this way for nothing."
For a while, a deep silence filled the kitchen.
Outside, the wind gusted around the tower. Somewhere in
another room, one of the opened shutters banged against
the wall.
"Maybe you're wrong," said Lys. "You can't
give up now." In the candlelit darkness she made
a small, fragile-looking figure, holding a
lute almost as big as herself. Randal had to remind
himself that without any magic of her own, she had once
dared a room full of demons to help pull him
to safety.
"Not now," she repeated, and Randal said nothing.
Far above, the wind wailed across the chimney of the
tower, and the noise echoed down into the kitchen with a sound
that resembled words, or the voices of a crowd of men.
The fire on the hearth burned low; the draft down
the chimney had pushed it- down to a pale blue
flame.
Randal shivered with sudden cold. He could see his
breath in the chill air. "Magic," he whispered.
his
Magic,
was whispered back another voice out of the dark.
Randal twisted to look in the direction of the sound. That
side of the room was empty. Out of the corner of his
eye Randal could see his cousin Walter lying on his
pallet by the hearth. The long sword that lay beside the
wounded man's left hand glowed with a pale blue
light of its own.
Reflections,
Randal thought, without conviction. He looked at the
hearth: the fire was almost out. Then smoke billowed
up. Sparks and flames made an elongated,
wavering face-eyes, a nose, an open mouth. Then
the mouth moved, and spoke.
"Find me. his
Lightning crackled around the tower, and thun der
boomed so loud that it seemed to shake the stones themselves.
In the ringing of his ears Randal thought he heard the
door below-the one he him self had bolted shut-open
and slam closed again. Then came the sound of
footsteps mounting the stairs.
Randal looked over at Lys. The lute
player, her eyes wide with fear, had risen to face
the spiral stair way leading down into darkness. As
Randal watched, she flung up one hand in a warding
ges ture. The words she called out were only a child's
simple charm against nightmares, but they seemed to echo
through the stone-walled room. "Unless you come in the name
of the powers of light, then in the name of the powers of
light, be gone!"
The footsteps stopped.
Abruptly, Walter sat up. His eyes snapped
open and stared before him. He raised. his arm and pointed
at Randal. "Help me," he said.
The voice wasn't his cousin's. And the arm with which
Walter had gestured was his right arm, the one with the
shattered shoulder blade. The one that couldn't move.
"Randal," Lys hissed in a desperate whisper,
"is this real?"
Randal nodded, his face pale.
As quickly as Walter had sat up, he lay back,
his eyes closed again. Randal's throat had gone
dry. He filled a cup with water from the pitcher on
the table, and drank. After the first swallow, he threw
the cup
away from him onto the floor, and spat the fluid out
of his mouth-it was not cold, sweet water, but
something thick, warm, and salty. Something like blood.
Dark liquid from the cup ran out across the floor, and
as it ran it seemed to form a word in a shaky
script:
Read.
"What should I read?" Randal cried aloud.
But he already knew the answer. Slowly and
reluctantly, he picked up his candle again, and
started up the spiral stairs. As he climbed,
drafts from nowhere plucked at his candle flame. The
storm outside increased in fury.
Something has awakened,
Randal thought.
Someone knows that I'm here.
He sat at the master wizard's desk and returned
to reading the journal. He read of how his old teacher,
Master Laerg, had opened the gate to the demonic
plane in an attempt to gain power by killing all the
wizards in the world. But now Randal understood that the
plan had not all been of Laerg's own making: the
first idea had come from the demonic plane, in order
to bring one of the demon princes into the world under no
control except its own.
Several of the entries in Balpesh's journal
discussed this possibility. At one time the
wizard would dismiss the idea as unlikely at best,
and at another would give new evidence in its
favor. Then, in an entry dated only three days
before, the journal stated positively,
There is
no doubt. The demon Eram has escaped
from the
demonic plane, and now walks abroad in
our world. It must be
found and
returned to its own place
before it
does true damage.
Randal turned the page. The entry continued.
The situation is worse than I thought
.
We must take immediate action. I
had hoped
to gather
the most powerful of the master
wizards to aid me in the task
,
but this threat will not
wait. Eram hopes
to bring others
of its
kind across the void between worlds, and then the time
for cures
will be past
. I must find
a way to draw the demon to me, and
then fight it myself. Surprise
will be my only advantage
. Anything
other than
swift
victory will
be defeat. I
wish that I could bring even one other wizard here
,
but time does not remain
for one to
come. I alone will construct a trap in my secret
workroom, and await Eram there
. The day after
tomorrow I believe the demon will come, but I must begin
my preparations tonight.
There were no further entries.
Randal closed the journal and stood up. The candle
on the table was guttering out in a puddle of
wax, and the storm had eased somewhat. A watery
gray dawn outlined the shutters in the study windows.
Slowly, he went back down the stairs and into the
kitchen. Lys had been dozing on the bench by the
fire; she sat up with a jerk as he came in.
"Balpesh is somewhere in this tower," Randal said, without
waiting for her to speak, "and a demon is with him."
VIIL
Searches
"BALPESH IS IN his workroom, and I have to find
him," Randal said. He sank down on a stool
next to the kitchen hearth. "The room upstairs where
we found the candles is just a sort of library.
Balpesh did his reading there, and it's where he stored
his books and papers, but I don't think he ever
used it for anything more than minor magic."
Lys shook her head. She had dark circles under
her eyes, like smudges of ink on her pale face.
Looking at her, Randal felt renewed awareness of
his own
exhaustion.
It's been two nights since either one of us had
any sleep,
he thought.
"We went all through this place," Lys
said. "And we didn't find any workroom." A
sudden gust of wind, stronger than the rest, rattled
the kitchen shutters as she spoke.
"There's one hidden in the tower somewhere," Randal
insisted. "There has to be. And Balpesh must be
trapped inside." Randal sank down onto the bench
next to Lys and rested his head in his hands. "I
don't know what to do."
"Randal," said Lys quietly, "that business of your
not doing magic. That's just a rule, isn't it?
Last time you broke the rules, it was for a greater good.
Couldn't you break the rules for a greater good again?"
He looked up. "And use magic to find the hidden
room?"
She nodded.
Randal sighed. "I gave my sworn word. If I
break that, then I'm no wizard, and I've proved
it out of my own mouth. When you're dealing with
wizardry, stepping off the path even a little gets you
hurt. I learned. Every time I clench my fist,
I'm reminded."
Lys looked at Randal's right hand. Slowly he
opened his fist and turned his hand palm up, showing her
the puckered red scar where he had cut himself to the bone,
saving himself from Laerg's spells. "So
what do we do?" she asked at last.
Randal pushed himself to his feet. "We find the
secret room. Let's start tapping on walls."
The morning passed in fruitless tappings and
trampings, while the storm raged outside.
By noon, both Randal and Lys were exhausted, and the
secret workroom, if indeed there was one, still remained
hidden.
On the pallet by the hearth, Walter slept-but not the
quiet sleep of healing. Instead, he alternately
shook with chills and burned with fever, at one time
kicking off his blankets, and at another shivering
uncontrollably. Walter's eyes were deeply
sunk in hollows, and his face appeared pale and
waxy. Randal or Lys gave him water to drink
whenever he awakened and complained of thirst, but they both
knew
that the young knight was slipping away in spite of their
efforts.
About noon, Lys put the cup of water back
onto the table beside the pitcher. "This isn't working,"
she said to Randal. "We've got to get something
better than water into him."
Randal leaned his aching forehead against the stone wall.
"We haven't got anything," he said.
"Except for stale bread, dry cheese, and tough
sausage. And I don't think I can take another
meal of those myself."
"There's fresh milk and eggs outside," said Lys.
"I can go out."
Randal shook his head. "Not by yourself in a storm like that.
I'll go with you."
"You need to keep looking for that hidden room.
"We'll only be gone a little while," he told
her. "And maybe the wind and rain will clear my head
a little. Besides, this is for Walter."
They put on their cloaks and made ready to go
outside. Randal crossed over to where Walter lay
by the hearth, and went down on one knee beside the
pallet. His cousin's eyelids slowly lifted,
and the hazel eyes focused on Randal.
"Randal?" "It's me," Randal reassured him.
"Good," murmured Walter. "I've had some
strange dreams.... Have you found your wizard yet?"
"Not yet," said Randal. "But I'm looking. Right
now, Lys and I are going outside to get you some
thing better to eat. Just rest easy until we come
back."
Together, Randal and Lys went downstairs into the
storeroom. Randal unbolted the
massive, iron bound oak door on the ground
floor, and put his shoulder against it. He could hear the
wind howling outside. He swung the door open,
and the two stepped outside. They stepped into a
sunlit garden under a blue sky dotted with high,
fluffy clouds.
Lys gasped.
"Illusion," said Randal quietly. "Something is
playing with our minds."
"Yes," said Lys, in the same careful tone. "But
which is the illusion-the sunshine, or the storm?"
Randal shrugged. "Without magic, who can tell? But
we came out to do something. Let's get it
done."
They collected the eggs and milked the goats as
quickly as they could. As they worked, the sunlit day
took on a brittle stillness. The silence of the
air made the sounds of birds and insects seem
even louder. Randal was glad when the work was finished
and he could return with Lys to the tower.
As soon as they stepped over the tower threshold, the
storm resumed outside with full force. Randal
closed the door against the raging wind, and slid the
heavy bar into place. Then he and Lys went up the
stairs and into the kitchen.
Randal carried the bucket of goat's milk over
to the kitchen table. "We're back, Walter," he
called out, as he reached for the cup and started to fill
it.
"We'll have something better than dry cheese for you in
a minute."
There was a moment of silence, and then Lys said, in a
tight voice, "Randal. Walter isn't here."
Carefully, Randal set the cup of milk down on
the
table, and turned toward the hearth. Lys had spoken
the truth: Walter's pallet was empty, and the long
sword no longer lay on the floor beside it.
"He was feverish," said Lys. "Maybe he wandered
off."
"Maybe," said Randal. A feeling of guilt
swept over him for leaving his cousin. He didn't
want to think about what else might have happened
to somebody left alone and unwatched in the stronghold
of a master wizard. Especially not after what they had
seen last night. "Let's start looking."
They found Walter upstairs in Balpesh's study.
The young knight lay blue-lipped and shivering where he
had collapsed in front of the tall bookcase that
stood between two shuttered windows.
Walter's left hand was still clenched around the hilt of
his heavy sword.
Randal hurried forward and went down to his knees
on the floor beside his cousin.
"What are you doing up here?" he demanded, almost
angrily. "You could have killed yourself just climbing those
stairs."
"I heard someone calling my name," said Walter.
His voice sounded faint and tired, but clear. "I
thought it was you. And there was a light, floating in the
air.... I followed it in here, but the room was
empty."
Randal looked at his cousin.
Last night something spoke through Walter
. If he followed
something up here maybe it's happened again.
"No," Randal said slowly, "I don't think the
room is empty."
"What do you mean?" asked Lys.
"I should have known that the workroom wouldn't be far from the
library," said Randal. He pointed at the
bookcase. "Look there. What do you, see?"
She followed the line of his finger. "A bookcase."
Randal nodded. "The only floor-to-ceiling
bookcase in the whole tower."
"But it's standing against the outside of the tower," Lys
objected. "The wall isn't thick enough to fit in a
secret room!"
"A detail like that isn't likely to stop a master
wizard," Randal explained. "He could have a
permanent-illusion spell cast on this room so that it
looks like that's an outside wall. Or he could have
a portal there leading to a room that's buried fifty
feet below the foundation of the tower. There are a hundred
ways to hide a room. I don't know which one
Balpesh used. But I'm certain the room is here.
All I have to do is find it."
Randal got to his feet and began pulling books
off the shelves, dropping volume after volume
onto the floor with no regard for delicate
illuminated illustrations or fine leather bindings.
Soon he stood ankle-deep in drifted books,
with the entire inside of the bookcase lying bare in
front of him.
One spot in the wooden paneling looked darker than
the rest, with an oily sheen to it, as though it
had been touched many times. "That'll be the catch," he
said. He reached out a hand toward the worn spot, then
paused and drew back.
"Lys," he said, turning around to face her
as he spoke. "Take Walter. Go down to the
kitchen and wait for me there."
"What sort of friend do you think I am?" she said
hotly. "I'm going to help you. You don't know
what might be on the other side of that wall."
I don't know what's there,
Randal thought.
But I can guess, and I wish it were almost anything
else but what'I think it is.
Aloud, he said, "I do know it's nothing you can help
me with. Please, Lys. I want you and Walter
safely out of the way before I open that door."
Walter pushed himself up to a half-sitting position
with his good arm. His face was pale and haggard, with a
bright flush of fever high up on his cheekbones, but
his expression was stubborn. "I can't let you face
trouble alone, Randy. What could I possibly say
to my father afterward-or to yours?"
Randal bit his lip.
Don't worry,
he thought.
Unless Balpesh heals you, you won't live long enough
to carry the tale to anyone.
"Tell them I sent you away," he told his
cousin. "Neither one of you can help me with
this-and if what I suspect is true, somebody will
have to get word to Master Madoc and the Regents of the
Schola."
"What are you talking about?" Lys demanded. "A
demon is loose in the world, and Balpesh is
trapped where he can't fight it." He looked at his
two friends. "Lys," he said, "I have to free
Balpesh.
If I can't-if anything goes wrong-you'll have
to carry the tale to someone who can fight the demon and
win."
"I'll tell Master Madoc," she said. "If
I can." "Swear it, Lys," he insisted. "Swear
that if you get a bad feeling-if you get nervous or
scared-you'll forget about me. Just get Walter out of
here and run."
Walter gave a breathless laugh. "If things get
that bad, Randal, I'll have to stay behind. I couldn't
run as far as the front gate."
Lys looked from Randal to Walter and back again.
"He's right," she said to Randal. "If I go,
I'll have to leave him."
"I know," said Randal. His voice sounded tired and
far away in his own ears. "Swear to it just the same."
"I swear I'll carry the news
to Madoc," she said.
There's something she isn't saying,
Randal thought, but he was too tired, and too weighed
down by his own fear, to press her any further.
"Then go," he said. "Take Walter, and wait for
me downstairs."
He stood watching as she helped his cousin to his
feet. Slowly, Lys and Walter made their way
across the book-strewn room and out the door. Randal,
standing immobile next to the bookcase, felt as if
their departure had drained all the warmth from his body.
He shivered and leaned his forehead against the empty
shelf in front of him. Then he straightened up
again, and pressed his hand against the worn spot at the
rear of the empty bookcase. He pushed,
and the paneling sagged inward. He heard a faint but
distinct click. He pressed again, harder, and the
secret door swung open.
Right through what should have been the outside wall of the
tower, it swung. The moving bookcase revealed a
room far larger than any room Randal had yet
seen in the tower. This was surely the secret workroom
that he had been seeking in vain for so long. Randal
stepped through the open door.
The wizard's workroom glowed with a blue and
eerie light. The illumination came from not one but two
overlapping magic circles, laid out on the
workroom floor like a pair of linked rings. Tall
candles spaced around them were lit with small orange
flames. Bitter-smelling incense burned in little
copper pots, and the blue-gray smoke made slow,
lazy curls in the still air.
In the center of each circle stood a wizard.
"Help me!" called the wizard in the left-hand
circle--a tall, gray-bearded man in
ceremonial robes of black velvet embroidered
with magical symbols in gold and silver. "Break
the circle so that I can destroy the demon!"
"No!" shouted the other wizard-also tall, also
gray-bearded, also clad in ceremonial robes of
black velvet trimmed in gold and silver.
"No! Help me! I am Master Balpesh-he
is the demon Eram!"
Randal looked from one wizard to the other. Each one
stood imprisoned inside a magic circle, and
each one held the other prisoner. Just as the
circles themselves were intertwined, the wizard and the demon
were locked in a deadly stalemate.
"Hurry!" commanded the wizard on the right. "Break the
circle around me and set me free!"
"No, no!" cried the wizard on the left.
"Free me from this circle, and we can fight the
demon together."
"Don't listen to him!" cried the other wizard.
"He'll destroy you!"
With every exchange, the two circles pulsed and glowed
as the wizards tested their strength against the boundaries that
held them prisoner. Randal looked from one wizard
to the other, and saw that the two were entirely
identical: every wrinkle on the face of one was
matched on the face of the other. He could see no
differences at all.
Why does it have to be me?
Randal thought.
The last time I walked into a wizard's private
workroom, I almost didn 't come out again. This time
...
if I guess wrong, I might turn loose
something far, far worse than Master Laerg could have
ever been.
Then, with a laugh that was almost a sob, the journeyman
lifted his head and straightened his shoulders.
Why am I worried? If I guess wrong,
I'll be dead. Even if I guess right, the
demon may kill us both. And there's no
other way to get my magic back.
. . .
No other way at all.
He walked farther into the room, taking care not to touch
the circles. Whichever one he chose, breaking it would
be easy-a physical act. Anyone could do it, just
by crossing the circle from the outside.
It was obvious to Randal that the wizard and the demon were
evenly matched. Even the slightest
advantage given to one would allow victory. I
have to choose,
he thought.
But I don't dare choose wrong.
The storm still raged outside. From the open door to the
library, Randal could hear the sounds of wind and rain.
He walked all around the two wizards, in order
to see if one of them looked different from another
angle. Neither one did.
So this is what happens,
Randal thought,
when you get a magical duel going on.
The illusory storm outside reflected the events
inside those two interlocking magic circles, just as
everything that had happened for the past week-the bandits on
the road, the betrayal at the tourney,
even the obstacles on the way to Balpesh's
tower-had been caused by the presence of the demon.
The demon warps everything toward evil,
he realized,
just by being here. If it gets free of the circle ...
He knew that he had to do something. The human wizard
would have to eat and sleep sometime, but the demon, no
matter how human it chose to look, had no such
disadvantage. If the contest continued, then in the long
run the demon would win.
And I can't allow that,
thought Randal. I
survived a roomful of demons once, but that was
by luck, not skill. Luck, and some help from three
of the greatest wizards in the realm.
The storm outside grew fiercer, and Randal knew
that the two in the circles had begun attacking each
other again.
I could free one of them, and trust to luck,
Randal thought.
But with only one chance in two of guessing right ...
luck isn't something I can count on. Powerful
magics are being cast here. You can't trust luck where
magic is involved.
He knew that more than his own life was at
stake. True, a wrong choice would mean his death,
and a painful one at that. But the demon wouldn't stop with
him. It would go on to kill Balpesh and Walter and
Lys, as well. Then more, and more, throughout the kingdom.
Randal couldn't guess where the killing would end.
Maybe Lys has already run for it,
thought Randal.
Maybe someone will bring help.
He shook his head.
You're dithering,
he told himself.
Not choosing is the same as making a choice.
Very well, then. I'll free the one on the right.
He walked up to just outside the right-hand circle.
"Yes, yes!" called the wizard inside. "Free
me, so together we can destroy this demon!"
Or maybe I should free the one on the left.
Randal stepped closer to the intersection of the glowing
boundaries. All that he needed to do was to put his hand
through one circle or the other, and that circle would
break.
He paused for a moment, turned to his right, and
stretched out his hand.
IX.
Wizard and Demon
"NO!"
Randal froze, his fingers still a hair's breadth
away from the flickering boundary of the magic circle.
The outcry had come from the entrance to the secret room.
Randal turned, and saw two figures moving forward
into the blue light that filled the chamber. One of them
was Lys, and the other was his cousin Walter. The young
knight carried his naked sword before him, and its
edges gleamed in the magical light. Walter's
eyes were fever bright, and he moved stiffly, but step
by step he came forward until he faced the wizard
in the right-hand circle.
"Demon," he said hoarsely, "if steel can harm
you, my steel shall harm you!"
Randal drew in a sharp breath.
If Walter's right, I
almost freed Eram instead of the wizard.
"Don't touch the circle!" he shouted at his
cousin. In the same breath Randal turned, and thrust
his hand through the glittering boundary of the left- hand
circle. The spell collapsed, and the wizard
stepped free.
I
hope I got it right this time,
thought Randal.
"Help me now," the newly freed wizard said.
"With your strength and mine together, we may-was
On the other side of the room, Lys cried out in
horror. Randal looked in the direction of her
shout, and saw the second wizard begin to twist and
change, his body writhing, stretching into a man shaped
thing seven feet tall. Its hide was dead white,
scarred and scabbed. The short white hair of its
head grew down its spine like a mane. Wet
fangs protruded from its mouth, and glittering claws
stud ded its hands and feet. The demon Eram
pressed against the bounds of the magic circle.
But Balpesh was tired and distracted from his task by the
new arrivals. The circle in which he had im
prisoned his foe flickered. As Randal watched, the
demon raised its long arms, pushed against the cir
cle that surrounded it, and broke through.
The wizard Balpesh lifted his hand and shot off a
fireball that set the demon's hair afire.
Smoke bil lowed upward toward the ceiling of the
secret cham ber.
The demon roared and thrust its paw at Balpesh.
The wizard countered with a magical gesture of his own,
but nevertheless staggered back a pace from the impact of
whatever Eram had thrown at him. The
demon surged forward, howling, toward Ran dal and the
master wizard.
Behind the unearthly shape, Walter raised his sword
left-handed. "Creature of evil!" he shouted.
"Do you dare turn your back on a knight?"
He brought the sword forward and down. The heavy
blade took Eram in the back of the skull, and
cut downward through the scaly body all the way to the
demon's belly. Eram laughed and turned around,
ripping the blade from Walter's hand with the motion. The
demon reached for the nowweaponless knight.
Razor-tipped claws spread wide, ready to rip
Walter's heart from his body.
A candlestick came sailing out of the corner to smash
against the back of the demon's skull. Eram
turned. Lys stood in the far corner of the workroom,
her upraised hand now empty. The demon shook
its head, snarled, and turned its attention back to
the knight.
"You're a wizard!" Balpesh shouted at Randal.
"Join your strength to mine and we can stop the demon!"
"I can't do magic!" Randal shouted back. "Not
without-was He never got a chance to finish the sentence.
Balpesh turned on him with a furious yell. "You
fool, you had
better
do magic! Come on
now--a lightning bolt, both of us together, one, two,
three, go!"
Randal threw a lightning bolt, the most powerful he
had ever summoned, putting into it all the frustration and
anger of the past magicless months. Balpesh did the
same, in a display of dazzling fire, so that the
master and the journeyman wizard formed the base of a
triangle of brilliant white light, with the demon
prince at its apex. The lightning surrounded the
demon, but did not touch it. The thing laughed and took
another step toward the two wizards. Balpesh saw
what was happening. "The demon
has shielded itself!" he cried out. "Cast your
spell at the sword instead!"
Together, Randal and Balpesh spoke the words.
Lightning played over the sword protruding from the
demon's guts. A violet glow surrounded the
weapon from point to pommel as the steel blade
carried magical fire past the demon's
shield-spell and deep into its body.
The demon writhed and twisted toward the two
wizards, blue-white fire crackling around it.
Thunder roared in the air, shaking the stones.
A smell of burnt hair filled the room. The
demon began to scorch and shrivel. Balpesh
called out the spell of portal opening, to create a
gate through which the demon could be forced back to its own
world.
But the master wizard was almost exhausted by his long
ordeal in the secret room-the portal wavered, and
started to fail. Hastily, Randal invoked the spell
of steadying, and gave his strength to the exhausted older
man. The demon fell away from them, into a place
between worlds, back to the demonic plane. The crack
in reality remained for a moment in the stinking air. Then
the gate fell in on itself and closed.
Balpesh stumbled over to a chair, and sat down
heavily. "That was a near thing," he said, "the nearest
thing that I've seen in a long time. It could have been
bad, if all of you hadn't shown up." He looked
at Randal. "Now, then-what's all this about not being
able to do magic?"
Before Randal could answer, a shriek from Lys cut
through the air in the secret room.
"Walter!" Randal spun around, and froze in
shock. The
young knight lay unmoving on the floor of the secret
workroom. Frothy red blood trickled from
his mouth, and his head lay in a pool of bright red
foam.
All Balpesh's weariness seemed to vanish in an
in stant. He rose and strode over to the fallen
knight. "Help him," Randal said quietly as the
master
wizard knelt and touched Walter's neck.
"Please." "It may be too late already,"
Balpesh replied. He stood up again, his robes
swirling around him. "But if it is not-you, girl,
fetch water. And you-was he pointed at Randal,
"take that chest there in the cor ner. Follow me."
The wizard turned back to Walter's still form.
Bubbles were forming outside the young fighter's mouth, but
there were no other signs of life. Bal pesh held
one hand out, palm up, and said
"Veni!"
in a voice of command.
Lys had already headed downstairs to the well.
Randal, bending to pick up the chest of supplies,
saw his cousin's body rise from the floor where it had
been lying and begin to float from the room, face up and
feet first. Balpesh followed behind, one hand resting
lightly on the young man's forehead, chanting something
too low for Randal to hear.
The little procession went out of the workroom, through the
study, and up the stairway. Before, Ran dal had
needed a candle to climb the spiral stairs. Now
he was able to walk swiftly and surely upward,
following the golden glow that surrounded the mas ter
wizard. Lys came behind Randal, lugging a heavy
bucket of water. All of them made their way to the
topmost chamber, where Randal and Lys had begun their
search only the day before.
Balpesh brought the wounded knight hovering above the
wide bed and, still chanting, lowered him down onto the
quilted coverlet. Walter was deathly still and pale.
"He is nearly done," said the master wizard.
"If this man is to have a chance at all, one of you will
have to give him some of your life force. It will be
dangerous, for if he dies, then whoever is linked with
him will die as well."
Randal drew a deep breath. There was no question, he
knew, about what his cousin would have done if their
positions had been reversed.
"I'll do it," he said. In the same instant, he
heard Lys's voice saying, "Take me."
"Well, well, such loyalty," said Balpesh,
sounding both weary and amused at the same time. He
looked first at Lys and then at Randal.
"I'll take you," he said at last to the
journeyman wizard. "You are of his blood, I
think. That should make matters easier. Lie beside him
on the bed"
Randal stretched out next to Walter on the
coverlet. Lying there, Randal felt calm and very, very
tired. He looked at Walter. The young knight,
although bloodstained and pale, also looked peaceful,
and the signs of pain were gone from his face.
Somewhere across the room, Randal heard the lid of the
chest being opened. Balpesh began to chant again, a
low, monotonous sound. Randal listened closely.
The words were in the Old Tongue, the language of
conjuration. Randal had learned to speak it at the
Schola, and now he listened with growing concern
to exactly what Balpesh was saying. The charm was one
to take the blood from Randal's body and give it
to his cousin.
He's going to steal my blood!
Randal thought in panic-even though it was Balpesh
working the spell, the intent came too close to what
Laerg had almost done to him. He tried to rise, but
his limbs were too heavy. He couldn't move. His
eyes wouldn't open.
No!
he thought. I
can't
let myself
go to
sleep. I have
to see what
His
s happening
to 
He struggled to stay awake, but the darkness of sleep
closed around him.
Something hummed near his face and heada large fly,
Randal supposed, like the ones in the stable of the
Basilisk Inn. The fly touched Randal's nose,
and he swatted at it without opening his eyes. But the
sun was bright against his closed lids, and the air was
warm. I
might as
well get up
,
Randal thought,
and have a look around.
He found himself wrapped in his cloak, lying under a
hedgerow. He stood and stretched, and walked out into the
road. Two men rode toward him, leading
a third horse by its bridle. One of the fellows was
short and fat, and dressed like a merchant. The other
was a burly man, armed and armored.
The men rode without looking either right or left. As
they came closer, Randal recognized their faces.
One was the young knight, Sir Louis, who had died
in the assault at the inn, and the other was the murdered
merchant, whose name Randal had never known. Dark
blood clotted on the wound in Sir Louis's
forehead, and the merchant still wore the strangler's cord
embedded in the plump flesh of his neck.
I'm dreaming,
thought Randal.
This has to be a dream.
The horses drew abreast of him and passed on. The
dead men sat unmoving, as if they had been carved from
wood. The riderless horse paced between them.
The empty saddle is for me,
Randal thought.
All I have to do is climb on, and I can ride.
Randal fought against the urge to mount the horse. He
stood and watched the men go. Before long the horsemen
passed from sight as the road entered some woods.
Randal began to walk down the road in the direction
they had gone.
Abruptly, he looked up. The road ended
twenty feet ahead in unmarked forest. Randal
looked behind him. The road extended no more than
twenty feet in that direction before it, too, ended in
forest. Randal turned forward again. The road ended
fifteen feet ahead of him, not twenty as he had
thought.
Randal felt a chill race down his spine. A
glance behind showed that the forest had approached to within ten
feet of his back while he wasn't looking.
Randal closed his eyes and counted to five. When he
looked around again, the road had vanished. He was
deep in the trackless woods.
A sudden wind blew through the treetops high above,
tossing the upper branches, but sending no
draft of air down into the dappled shadows where
Randal waited. He looked in the direction from which the
wind had come, and saw a strange, twisted tree
growing a little apart from the rest.
He felt a great longing in his heart. The tree
called to him, pulling him closer almost against his will.
As he drew near, he saw that the tree was strange
indeed. Three different kinds of leaves grew from
its twisted limbs. Randal realized that three
trees had grown up here in the same
spot, intertwin ing so that they merged into a single
trunk: an oak, a rowan, and an ash.
Randal walked around the interwoven trunk. On the
far side, he found proof that he had not been the first
to pass this way. The wood of the rowan tree bore the
unmistakable signs of an ax. The ax's edge had
bitten deep, cutting large chips from the trunk, but
that had been long ago, because the bark had started to grow
again over the wound.
The wind rustled again in the trees, and a beauti ful,
melodious voice spoke from behind Randal. "You fought
me in your world. Now fight me in mine."
Randal turned. The demon Eram stood before him,
a tall figure gleaming brilliant white in the
sun light that pierced the forest.
For a moment, time froze.
Beautiful
,
Randal kept thinking, in something like despair.
In its own world,
a demon
prince is beautiful
beyond
belief.
Then the demon leapt at Randal, seized
him, and the two fell to the forest floor.
Randal hit the ground full on his back, and kept
on falling, passing through the ground into a dark place,
with the demon clawing at his throat.
Dream!
he thought.
This is a dream!
But dreams don't hurt, the answer came,
and this one does. It hurts bad.
Randal called up light in the dark place, using the
spells that had lain unpracticed for half a year.
A light came to him-not a blinding glare, but a
fitful glimmer, and what he saw almost made him
wish for the dark. The demon was on him, tearing at his
chest, and white fangs gleamed like ivory needles
only inches from his face.
Only the trained reflexes he'd carried away from
the practice yard of Castle Doun saved him from
having those fangs buried in his skull. When the
demon attacked, Randal blocked with his left arm,
and now his forearm was jammed up under the demon's jaw,
keeping that living nightmare from putting an end to him.
I can't hold of a demon bare-
handed

thought Randal. I
have to do something
,
or
I'm
going to die.
He threw a lightning bolt. It sputtered and
fizzled when it hit the demon's body. Eram
laughed-a musical, bell-toned sound-and raked at
the young wizard's back and belly with knife-edged
claws.
If you
die in a dream, do you
die for real?
And in the
demon's world
, does it make any
difference?
Randal was still falling, falling with the demon on top of
him, snapping at him. Eram's mouth opened
impossibly wide, and a long, crimson tongue
flicked out.
I can't let it get me,
thought Randal. A
demon prince,
fed with
a
wizard's
blood ... who knows what it might
do?
There was only one thing left to try. Drawing on
all his reserves of strength, Randal called up a
fireball-not on the invulnerable body of the demon
prince, but on himself.
The flames came, with pain worse than he had ever
experienced, worse than the pain of the claws raking
his back, worse than grasping a sword blade,
worse than anything, until the flame red was
replaced with black, and he awoke.
Randal lay on the bed in the top chamber of
Balpesh's tower. Lys sat cross-legged on the
coverlet at the foot of the bed, her lute in her
hands, playing a soft, sad tune. And as she
played, she sang:
"His hound is to the hunting gone, His hawk to fetch
the wild fowl home, His lady's taken another
mate,
So we may make our breakfast sweet."
Outside the tower, dawn was breaking, and light from the
rising sun caught the lute strings, turning
them red-gold in the shadows. Lys looked up from her
playing.
"You're awake," she said.
"Yes," said Randal. "And hungry, too. Where
is everybody?"
"It's not surprising that you're hungry," Lys
told him. "You've been asleep since before this time
yesterday. As for Walter and Balpesh, they're down
in the kitchen, making breakfast."
Randal turned toward the, edge of the bed. He ached
all over. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"Besides what you already know?" asked Lys. "I
didn't understand much."
"Tell me what you saw."
Lys put aside the lute. "Well, Balpesh
put you and Walter here, and he chanted until way
past dark. I lit candles when the sun went down.
All the time, Walter kept looking better, and you
kept looking worse. Then all the water in the
bucket I brought vanished, and Walter woke up.
I took him downstairs and got him dressed, and
when I got back, Balpesh was working over you. After
a while, he said you'd get better, and to feed you when
you got up. So I stayed, and you woke up, and here
we are. Let's go see about getting you
something to eat."
Randal stood. He felt weak and light-headed;
Lys saw that he was swaying, and came to support
him. They walked down the stairs together and entered the
kitchen, where bunches of dried herbs hung from the
ceiling beams and a fire burned in the hearth. Two
fresh loaves of bread lay cooling on the
sideboard, and Walter sat at the large table,
dressed in a clean tunic, digging into a large
plate of scrambled eggs.
He looked up as Randal entered the room. "Your
friend is a good cook, I'll give him that."
"That's what you need more than anything else,"
Balpesh said from his seat at the fireside. "Good
food for good healing. For both of you."
Randal sat down at the table, and Lys brought him a
plate of eggs and a cup of milk. He ate
hungrily
for several minutes, then took a long drink of the
milk and set the cup aside. "I'm glad it's
all over," he said. "For a while there, I didn't
think any of us were going to come out alive-even last
night, my dreams were still full of death and disaster."
Walter glanced up from his own meal. "Dreaming again?"
he asked, looking concerned. "I hope it
wasn't anything like the last nightmare you had."
"I don't know," said Randal slowly. "It was very
strange. And my dreams usually do mean something."
Seeing that Walter continued to regard him with a worried
expression, he went on to tell everything that he had
seen. "It was all so real," he said finally. "I
don't understand how the fireball I cast on myself
could hurt so much and still not kill me."
Balpesh spoke up again for the first time in several
minutes. "Sometimes a dream is only a dream,"
he said. "You never cast a fireball, you only
dreamed of it. You were safely at rest through it all.
Had you truly been fighting a demon, you would not have
come out of the struggle unscathed. What you experienced
was just a disturbing nightmare, no more."
Master Madoc said all dreams have meaning,
Randal thought, but he decided to let the matter
pass. He ate his fill of eggs and fresh bread and
cool milk, and soon found himself feeling better, and
full of more energy than he had had in months.
When Randal had finished his breakfast, Master
Balpesh rose from the bench by the hearth and beckoned
to him. "Now," said the master wizard,
you and I have some work to do-repairing the
bridge and clearing the rest of the path back
to town. Can you work a levitation spell?"
"I know how," said Randal, "but I've never done a
really big one."
Balpesh nodded. "Then this is an excellent time
to practice. Come with me."
Randal rose from the table, and walked out with Master
Balpesh through the silent farmstead and down the path to the
ravine. The morning sun coming over the mountains cast
a clear yellow light on the jagged ends of the broken
bridge.
"The first warning that the demon was near was when this
bridge collapsed," Balpesh said. "Now we have
to raise it again."
The day was beautiful, and the air was warm. One by one,
the master wizard called the broken pieces of stone
out of the gorge so far below. Randal found that he
wasn't able to reach that far with his magic, and contented
himself with smoothing the spiderweb of cracks on the
bridge's surface.
The sun stood at high noon by the time the last stone
settled into place. Then, as Randal and Balpesh
stood together on the center of the span, the wizard
spoke again.
"There's one more thing you ought to know," he said.
"What's that?"
"Your friends are dead. You freed the wrong wizard."
X. Journeyman and Wizard
I
FREED THE wrong wizard.
Randal stood on the center span of the bridge and
stared at Balpesh. The master wizard was smiling at
him, but his eyes were wrong-dead black and fathomless,
with no white showing.
Demon eyes.
The old man's skin split and fell away, and
Eram emerged like some foul butterfly from its human
cocoon. The demon prince started forward across the
stones of the bridge, an evil presence that seemed
to suck all the good out of the world as it came.
And there's no one left to stop it,
thought Randal.
No one but me. Was this what my dream meant, after
all?
Balpesh had said that the dream had no meaning-but
Balpesh had died in the secret workroom, and the
demon had worn his face thereafter.
And he wanted me to forget the dream. Something in the
dream was important, but I can't remember . . .
Eram laughed, enjoying Randal's fear, and stretched
out its ivory claws. "Now, little wizard,
I'll have your blood."
Randal stood as if rooted to the spot. I
have to remember,
he thought,
or
I'm
going to die.
Then he did remember, as the razor-edged claws
made their first delicate nick in the flesh of his
throat.
That was the answer Eram wanted me to
forget. I
have to die to kill him.
And he cast a spell, using the same fireball that
had served him in his nightmare-throwing it not at the
demon, but at the bridge beneath Eram's feet. The
stone cracked with the heat, and split apart along the
cracks. Randal felt the center span of the bridge
tilt under his feet. Eram howled and sprang
back, but Randal held on to him with his arms. Then the
whole world seemed to fall away from under disthem with a
noise like thunder, and the bridge collapsed into the
chasm, taking Randal and the demon with it as it went.
Randal clasped Eram close while he chanted the
spell of negation, so neither he nor the
demon could work magic to save themselves.
And Randal fell, at last, out of the dream and back
into reality.
He lay once again in Balpesh's bedchamber.
Dark night filled the room, broken by the yellow
light of candles. Faces looked down at him:
Lys, his cousin Walter, and Balpesh.
The master wizard looked near done in with
exhaustion. "We almost lost you," he said. "But
you're back."
"The demon," said Randal. "Eram. I saw him
in my dream...." Haltingly, for his voice was weak
and his chest and ribs hurt him whenever he drew a
breath, Randal told Balpesh everything that had
happened since the healing spell began. He
finished, finally, by saying, "I still don't know if the
demon in my dream was real."
The wizard nodded. "All too real. The spell
we used in the workroom to send the demon back to its
own plane of existence wasn't quite powerful enough.
Eram had time to prepare a gateway back to this
world. If you hadn't met the demon on its own
plane of existence and stopped it there, it might well
have come back into our world and after all of
"So it wasn't really a dream, after
all," said Randal.
"Not in the way most people know dreams," Balpesh
told him. "You appear to have a natural talent for
slipping between the various planes of existence, and in this
case it served you-in fact, it served all of
us-well. I'm in your debt for my rescue. Let
your wounds finish healing. Then we can talk about what
happened here."
Randal frowned, not certain he'd heard the wizard
right. "Wounds? What wounds?"
It was Walter who answered. The young knight was still
pale, but his face was no longer marred by fever and
pain. The only outward reminder of his injury was the
white linen sling that supported his right arm. "Right
now, cousin," Walter said to Randal, "you're wearing
more bandages than I am."
"That explains why I hurt all over," Randal
murmured. "What happened?"
Walter shook his head. "I don't know. The last
thing I remember is looking into the door of that
secret room and seeing you reach out toward the ugliest
creature I've ever seen, and it was laughing. I
struck it, and then I woke up in here with a clear
head while something we couldn't see was clawing you
to pieces."
"You never went downstairs like I asked you to," said
Randal. He laughed in spite of the fact that
laughter tore at the claw marks on his bandaged
chest. "See if I try to keep you out of trouble
anymore. But I'll forgive you this time, since if
you hadn't picked out the demon ..."
He let the sentence hang.
Balpesh smiled at Randal. "It's all very well
to speak of a wizard's keen and subtle powers of
observation," he said. "But the illusion the demon
cast was
meant
to deceive a wizard. That same illusion had no effect
on a man like your cousin."
"Lucky for me that it didn't," said Randal, with a
sigh.
"You all did extremely well," said Balpesh.
"Without Walter's blade inside the demon's
defenses, or the candlestick which Lys threw,
distracting its attention at a crucial moment, I
doubt that any of us would be here. But especially you,
Randal. Your magic, added to mine, is what sent that
foul creature back to its home."
"I'm still confused," Lys said. The elder wizard
turned to face her, his expression inviting
her to continue.
"For example, how was it that I was able to climb into the
tower through a window? Randal said that
this place would have protection spells all over it.
If I were a master wizard, I'd guard my home
so that strangers couldn't get in."
"And this tower is guarded, with spells powerful and
deadly," Balpesh replied. "But they are triggered
by evil intent. Had you come meaning to steal my
spoons, I daresay you wouldn't have found the
entry so easy. But instead," he continued, "your
motives couldn't have been better. You sought help for
another. But come, we should let Randal rest so that my
healing spells can work on him. There will be much time for
talk tomorrow."
"One more thing," Randal said from the bed. "In my
dream, I saw a strange tree-an oak, an
ash, and a rowan, all growing together as one. What
does that mean?"
"If I were going to make a guess, I'd say that
you were looking at the friendship among you, Lys and
Walter. Walter, strong and reliable, is the oak;
Lys, slender and resilient, is the ash; and you are
the rowan, a tree of magic."
"Someone tried to cut down the rowan,"
Randal said. "I saw the ax marks. What does it
mean?" "That's because Laerg nearly cut you down,"
Balpesh said, "although you have recovered nicely.
What the vision means, now, is something else again.
Clearly the three of you are destined to play some part
together, but what that part might be, I can't even
guess." The wizard paused. "And those are enough questions
for tonight. Sleep now, and we will talk more in the
morning."
Randal leaned back in the bed, and fell asleep.
This time, he had no dreams.
The next few days went by quickly as Randal
recovered from his combat with the demon prince. The marks
of the demon's claws soon faded from Randal's chest
and shoulders, leaving no scars behind-a tribute
to Balpesh's healing skills. The master wizard also
took the opportunity to instruct Randal in the
basics of the healer's art, teaching him the spells
to stop bleeding and close wounds, to lower fevers and
ease pain.
"Healing is the greatest of the arts of the wizard," said
Balpesh one day as he guided Randal through a
practice session in the healing spells, "even though
not many of the Schola-trained chose to follow it."
The master wizard looked at the scar on
Randal's palm. "Do you want me to do away with
that?" he asked. "It's quite simple, really."
"No," Randal replied after a moment's thought.
"It's ugly, and it hurts, but I want to keep
it. To remind me that choices always have their
consequences."
The older wizard smiled at the answer, as if
Randal had passed a secret test. "Come then.
It's time to repair my broken bridge and set you
and your friends back on your way."
Randal and Balpesh left the workroom, going out through
the wizard's study and down the spiral staircase
to the storeroom at the bottom of the
tower. The door to the outside stood open, and Lys
sat on the doorstep, playing her lute and singing.
""Well met, well met, my own true love,
Well met, well met," said he.
"I've just returned from the salt, salt sea, And
it's all for the sake of thee." his
Beyond Lys, out in the farmyard, Randal saw his cousin
Walter practicing with the heavy sword, swinging it
one-handed through a series of blows at an invisible
opponent. The shoulder that had once been broken beyond
repair moved freely and easily, and the young knight
looked well on the way to regaining all his
old strength and speed.
Balpesh turned to Randal. "One more thing, be fore we
start to work on the bridge." The master wizard
pointed at a stack of chests and boxes hud dled
against one wall. "Go look in that small box on the
top there-the locking spell isn't a particu larly
difficult one."
Randal went over to the boxes and tried the lock on
the one Balpesh had indicated. As the master wizard
had said, the spell holding the chest closed was a
simple one; no more complex than the charms most
apprentices in the Schola used to keep their
personal belongings safe from casual tampering.
Randal undid the spell after only a few
moments" concentration, and the lid of the chest rose up
to reveal a folded robe made of plain black
cloth.
"Put it on," said Balpesh.
Randal slipped the robe on over his tunic and
hose. The wide-sleeved black garment hung down
to mid-calf, and had deep pockets on either side,
much like the robes apprentice wizards wore back
at the Schola. This robe, however, was made of much
heavier cloth, and had a hood that could be pulled up
over the wearer's head for protection against
cold or rain.
This is a journeymans robe,
Randal thought. He looked into the chest again, and saw
something more: a small, leatherbound book that had lain
hidden under the black cloth of the robe. He picked
the book up and opened it. The handwriting inside was his
own.
"My spell-book," he said. "I left it at the
Schola." He looked over at Balpesh. "How
did these things come to be here?"
"On the day when I put on master's robes," said
the older wizard, "I put aside my
journeyman's clothing. I put my old robe
away and locked the chest with a simple charm. Then I
spoke a spell over it so that on the day the box was
opened again, I would find not only my old robe, but
also the one other object most needed by the journeyman
who would wear it. For fifty years and more, that box
has lain unopened, waiting for the day when the robe would
be needed again. At last, the day has come."
"Then I'm truly a journeyman?" asked
Randal. "When I saw what you wrote in your
journal, I thought that you didn't intend to let me
use magic again.
The master wizard looked at him
gravely. "As you suspected, I knew of your
troubles and watched
your progress as you traveled. But I was still
uncertain, when the demon came, whether or not I
should give you permission. It was never so much the matter
of the sword that concerned me, as a fear that learning so
much from Master Laerg might have corrupted you. But
you kept your vow not to use magic, and you fought the
demon at great risk to yourself on our plane and on
its own."
He smiled at Randal. "And now, journeyman,
we have a bridge to repair."
Randal slipped the spell-book into the pocket of his
robe and followed Balpesh out into the farmyard. Lys
stopped singing as they stepped past her onto the
doorstep, and Walter abandoned his sword
practice to come up for a closer look at his cousin.
Randal stood patiently as Walter gave him a
thorough inspection. Finally the young knight smiled.
"I think I've lost my squire," he said.
"I'm glad for you, Randal, but I'm going to miss
you out on the road."
"I'd like to stick with you for a while," said Randal, "but
there's not much magic to be learned following the
tourneys. And before we go anywhere, I have
to help Master Balpesh rebuild the bridge."
Walter sheathed his sword. "I think I want
to watch this," he said. "Ever since I heard that you
went off to be a wizard, I've wanted to see you do
some magic, and this is my first chance."
"I'm coming, too," said Lys. "Every time I let you
out of my sight something terrible happens." Master
Balpesh laughed gently. "Then together
it is," he said. Together they walked down the path
to the ravine, going over the gap in the high hills
around the farm and down the stone steps cut into the face
of the rock. In the clear light of midmorning, the
ruined bridge over the mountain gorge made a
lonely and forsaken sight.
Master Balpesh frowned at the wreckage.
"Tell me, Randal, have you ever watched stonemasons
build a bridge?"
"No," Randal admitted.
"Then let this be your first lesson as a
journeyman," said the master wizard. "On your
travels, take note of everything-not just the odd
bits and pieces of magic you may encounter. If you
understand how a thing is done without magic, then you will know
how to do it with magic, as well."
Balpesh pointed toward the ravine and the
ruined heaps of stone on either side. "Consider
bridges," he went on. "When stonemasons make
bridges, first they build a wooden platform below the
span to hold the stones until the work is done. Now
I want you to make a magical platform for me,
using your levitation spell to hold each stone in
place until the keystone is in. Once that stone
is in place, the world, and not magic, will support the
bridge."
Randal nodded, and checked his spell-book. Yes,
the words of the levitation spell were there, just as he had
copied them down during-Master Tarn's lecture.
He tucked the spell-book back into his
pocket, and strode up to the edge of the ravine. After
taking a moment to calm his mind, he spoke the words,
made the gestures, and thought the thoughts that would bend the
world to his will.
"Fiat!"
he concluded, and felt the gratifying mental warmth
of a spell that had gone right. He nodded to Master
Balpesh, and then stood at the gap, watching as the
master wizard used magic to cut stones from the cliff
face below. Blocks of stone floated free and
rose to the level of the bridge. The blocks
settled into place one by one, lying
smoothly together on the invisible framework that Randal
had constructed.
At last Balpesh fitted the keystone into the arch and
pronounced, "It is finished."
Randal ended his levitation spell, and sat down
heavily on the ground. He bowed his head down on his
knees for a moment, breathing heavily-the spell had
taken more out of him than he'd expected.
"You're out of practice," said Balpesh kindly,
"and your struggles with the demon left you drained as
well. Your strength and magical reserves will grow
as you work more magic and gain experience.
The master wizard looked at Walter. "Have you seen
your cousin do enough magic now?" he asked in a mild
tone, and then shook his head without waiting for an
answer. "Ah, but you didn't see what he did.
You believe that the bridge could not have been built in
this fashion without his help-but you believe with your mind,
not your heart."
Balpesh turned to Randal. "Here is a spell that
I am sure you know. Take these"-he pulled two
acorns from the pocket of his robe-"and regrow my
trees."
Randal took the acorns, weighing them in his
hands. Then he walked over to where the pine
tree had once stood. He put the acorn in the
little patch of bare dirt that nestled in the rocks.
Then he walked across the bridge, feeling its
steadiness and rejoicing in the sense of accomplishment that the
creation of something so practical gave him.
On the far side of the bridge, where only a stump
remained, he placed the second acorn in a
crack in the broken wood. Then he retreated to the
center of the span and spoke the words of growth and life
that Master Laerg had first shown him in the library
of the Schola. While he watched, a green shoot
ap peared from each of the acorns, and then-as twenty
years of growth passed in a single minute the shoots
became saplings, and then young trees full of
leaves, their roots firmly bound to the crev ices
in the rocks. The twin oak trees were pleasant and
green, and their leaves whispered in the cool breeze
that rose from the river so far below.
Randal walked back to his friends on the road
to Balpesh's tower.
"Well done, Randal," the master wizard said.
Randal smiled, even though working this spell so soon
after helping rebuild the bridge had left him almost
exhausted. But far more gratifying to him than
Balpesh's praise was the look of wonder
in Walter's eyes, and Lys's proud smile.
A few days later, Randal stood once more with
Lys and Walter on the near side of the bridge.
All three of the young people were dressed again for travel
"I'm heading for Cingestoun," said Randal. "There's
a university there, and a library where I can spend a
restful week or so poking around the scrolls and
manuscripts."
"And I'm going with you," Lys said. "You need someone
to keep you out of trouble."
Randal smiled. "I don't suppose I have any
choice in the matter." He turned to his cousin.
"How about you, Walter?" he asked. "We can go as
far as Tattinham together, at least. Before you go
anywhere else, you have to find out where Sir
Guillaume left your horses and armor."
"And maybe you can find out where Sir Reginald
went, as well," said Lys. "Because if he was the one
who tried to kill you-was
"I have business to settle with Reginald," agreed
Walter, "but my debt to Master Balpesh comes
first." The young knight laughed. "I made the
mistake of asking him if there was anything that I could
do to repay him for healing me. There was. "A little
favor," he called it."
"What did Balpesh ask you to do?" Randal asked.
"I have to return a book that he borrowed from the
Hermit of the Western Isles," said Walter. He
shook his head. "Minstrels sing of quests that were
simpler-no one's traveled from Brecelande to the
Western Isles in over a hundred years, and I
thought the Hermit was only a legend."
Randal thought of his dream and the magical tree that had
been three trees twined into one. "Do you need a
wizard along?" he asked.
"No," said Walter. "This is something that I have
to finish on my own."
"You'll do well, I know it," Randal told him.
"And we'll travel together again someday-until then,
we all have our own roads to follow."
His heart was light as he stepped out onto the broad
stone bridge. I
have my magic back,
he thought happily,
Walter has the healing he risked so much for, and the
whole world is open for us
to explore.
Together they started down out of the mountains into the bright new
day.
Read
the first
exciting book in the series
by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald
Randal thought he wanted to be a wizard .. . As a
young squire, Randal seems assured of a future
as a
knight until a mysterious wizard enters the castle
gates.
To his astonishment, Randal discovers that he himself
possesses special powers. He leaves the
security of life as a squire to become a student
at the School of Wizardry. Once his training in
the mystic arts has begun, however, Randal soon
learns that there are many perils-and one deadly
enemy-to be overcome before he can advance from
sorcerer's apprentice to journeyman wizard....
ISBN 0-8167-6936-2
Available wherever you buy books.
Read the next exciting
book
in the series
by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald
Is this magic worth dying for?
Randal begins a dangerous adventure when a dying
man gives him a mysterious statue. The
man's last request is that Randal give the statue
to a mercenary named Dagon.
Randal soon discovers that the statue possesses
great
power, and that Dagon is not to be trusted.
But the mercenary is not the only one who wants the
statue. A warlord, a wizard, and many others in the
strange walled city of Widsegard are after Randal
and his friends. What's more, the statue's power seems
to be growing. Can Randal find a safe place for it,
before its magic destroys him?