The Magestone

by Andre Norton

  “I should think,” I observed tentatively, “that locating Escorian Mages would be a difficult, indeed dangerous undertaking.”

  As I spoke, I watched Gratch closely. Oftentimes, folk who boast of their mastery of a skill like poisoning fail to recognize that others may also stumble upon useful scraps of poison lore of which they may be unaware. Among Krevonel’s ancient manuscripts, I had found a description—annoyingly pierced by vermin’s teeth—of a certain rare root which, when dried and powdered, was promised to loosen a guarded tongue. Having acquired and powdered such a root, I had cautiously sampled a few grains to gauge whether the flavor could be noticed in wine, and also to test its effect on an Alizonder, since the document had originally been seized in a sea raid on the shipwreckers of Verlaine. Aside from a slight warming of the blood, I detected no other effect on me, but I thought it worthwhile to try the potion on Gratch, whose home isle of Gorm was near enough to Karsten to render him perhaps vulnerable. I had therefore tipped a pinch of the root powder from my signet ring’s hidden compartment into Gratch’s first goblet of bloodwine. It was gratifying to see that his breathing had noticeably quickened, and a film of sweat was glistening on his forehead. I awaited his reponse to my statement with special interest.

  “There are more mages and would-be mages lurking about in those border mountains than you would believe,” Gratch blurted. “Of course, most are worthless, self-deluded fools. I mind one I came upon this past summer—an old recluse who had brewed a potion supposed to stimulate the body to great feats of strength and endurance. He was so enamored of the effect he felt when he dipped his fingers in a basin of it, that he had his apprentice fill a bath with the potion so he could immerse his entire body.”

  “Such a potion could be of great value to soldiers,” I acknowledged. “The mage was mightily affected, I trust?”

  Gurborian scowled. “The old fool died outright from excessive excitement,” he said bitterly, “and his witless apprentice was so frightened that he turned out the tub, scrubbed the floor, and burned the only directions for mixing the potion.”

  “What a loss,” I commiserated.

  Gurborian waved his hand dismissively. “Only a minor disappointment when measured against the range of our accomplishments. An assurance for the future greatness of Alizon is within our very grasp.” He regarded me keenly. “You cannot deny that your word wields weighty influence upon the younger whelps of your Line. What more dazzling prospect could you set before them than an Alizon whose borders extend into . . . even beyond Karsten. I should certainly prize your counsel and leadership in the triumphant days to come.” For an instant, his fingers hovered near his tunic pocket as if he intended to reach inside, then he hesitated, and merely extended both his hands flat on the table. “In addition to the high position I would guarantee you,” Gurborian continued, “it might be possible that other rewards. . . .”

  But Gratch had been staring fixedly first at Gurborian’s hands, then at Mereth’s gloved hands, and abruptly he exclaimed, “Hands! I knew I had heard something about Volorian’s hands. The left hand—during this summer, you lost parts of two fingers while separating your hounds. Why are your hands concealed in those gloves?”

  “The ague produces frequent chills,” I intervened, but it was too late. Before I could prevent him, Gratch seized Mereth’s left hand and snatched off that glove, revealing her full complement of fingers—as well as her gender.

  While Gratch glared as if he had uncovered a venomous toad, Mereth jerked her hand free from his grasp. Gratch bellowed, “A bitch’s hand—this is not Volorian!”

  CHAPTER 22

  Mereth–events at Krevonel Castle (21st Day, Month of the Ice Dragon/ 20th Day, Moon of the Knife)

  As soon as Gurborian had seated himself, I became aware of a curious sensation emanating from his end of the table. And then I knew as if my fingertips had brushed the very stone: Elsenar’s jewel was concealed upon Gurborian’s person. Never before had I felt such a certainty, or detected an object’s presence without physically touching it.

  It was impossible for me to alert Kasarian that Morfew’s devious message had succeeded. Gurborian now had to be pricked into openly presenting the jewel as his crowning enticement.

  I had to be aware of judging the attraction of a bribe by the Dales’ standards. As an experienced trader, I had already assessed the wealth of the House of Krevonel. Its castle fittings might be spare, but they were all of the highest quality. My association with Kasarian caused me to doubt that lavish riches or sensual pleasures would appeal to him. The other Alizonder barons craved brute power—or in Volorian’s case, pre-eminent mastery of those accursed hounds.

  When Gratch sought to take advantage of that weakness by proposing access to hound breeding rights, I stared scornfully at him as if he were proffering me a tub of rancid butter. Undeterred by my negative reaction, Gratch drew a rough map on the table top with a finger dipped into his bloodwine. I had to suppress the urge to shudder at the raw memories that action evoked. The table’s wood was pale, bleached like the Alizonders themselves. Against that ivory surface, the wine’s crimson streaks ran like real blood, reminding me unbearably of other long-ago tables covered with wounded Dalesmen. I forced myself to concentrate on Gratch’s hateful voice. His Alizonian was tinged with a Gorm accent which he constantly strove to disguise.

  My heart lurched when Gurborian actually began to reach for his tunic pocket, but he hesitated, spreading his hands flat on the table. Jarred from his wine-soaked reverie, Gratch peered from Gurborian’s hands to mine. Before I could evade him, he stripped off my left glove, roaring that I was not Volorian, but a female.

  We all leaped to our feet, seeking positions of advantage. I discarded my right-hand glove so that I could take a firmer grip on my staff.

  Just as Kasarian had predicted, both Gratch and Gurborian had smuggled in concealed weapons—Gratch pulled from his pocket as small a dart gun as I had ever seen, while Gurborian drew a thin-bladed dagger from his sleeve. Kasarian immediately snatched his hidden sword from behind the wall tapestry.

  Even despite his copious bloodwine consumption, Gratch still moved with unsettling agility. He lunged toward me, snarling, “Out of my way, useless female!”

  In backing away from him, I caught my boot heel against the chair leg, throwing myself off balance. Gratch struck at my shoulder as I swayed, shoving me to the floor. He desired a clear dart shot at Kasarian, who was completely immersed in his life-or-death duel with Gurborian. I knew Gratch’s darts had to be poisoned, probably rendering any bare-skin impact deadly.

  Gratch did attempt one shot, but Kasarian’s keen side vision must have registered our movement, for he dodged to one side even as Gratch lifted his gun to fire. Unwittingly, Gratch stepped within range of my staff. I reached up from my prone position on the floor and smashed the staff across his forearm, sending the dart gun careering over the stone paving. Colliding with the table support, the gun rebounded toward me. I snared it with my staff, seized it, and fired point-blank at Gratch’s looming face, as he was diving to retrieve his weapon. The dart lodged beneath his left eye. He gave a horrid shriek as he fell atop my legs, but I kicked out and rolled away from him, under the table. In case he pursued me, I spun around as quickly as I could, but I need not have troubled on Gratch’s account. His dart poison must have been instantly lethal. Gratch lay where he had fallen, his eyes still staring in disbelieving horror, his limbs twitching like those of a beheaded lizard. It occurred to me that he had never expected a “useless female” to fight back.

  CHAPTER 23

  Kasarian/Mereth–events at Krevonel Castle, and later at Lormt (20th Day, Moon of the Knife/21st Day, Month of the Ice Dragon)

  Kasarian

  As Gurborian engaged me in an aggressive pursuit around the room, I heard the impact of Mereth’s body against the paving stones, but I could spare no more than the briefest of glances in their direction. Gurborian furiously pressed his attack at that point, and
I was forced to transfer my full attention to our dispute. It could not have been more than a moment or two later that Gratch screamed. As I retreated toward the conference table to survey Mereth’s situation, I tossed one of the chairs in Gurborian’s path to obstruct him.

  I could not immediately see Mereth, but Gratch was dead, lying half under the table, his face contorted. I had to assume that Mereth had somehow acquired his dart gun and shot him—a most unexpected but welcome action on her part. I had no time to search for Mereth, being again assailed by Gurborian. In case Mereth was alive and hiding under the table, I drew Gurborian toward the far end of the chamber. As we fought our way past the barred doors, a volley of blows rang out against them from the corridor side. Bodrik’s force was doubtless engaging Reptur’s quartet. I felt confident that Krevonel would prevail in that encounter; I had to be equally certain that I was the victor on my side of the doors.

  Mereth

  As I caught my breath, I realized that along with the clash of blades inside the room, I could also hear definite sounds of conflict outside in the hall. The two Alizonders were warily circling one another in the far end of the room. I shivered at the thought that with both sword and dagger blades poisoned, even the slightest scratch might be fatal. I crept nearer, hoping to trip Gurborian with my staff, but like Kasarian’s, his huntman’s senses alerted him to my stealthy approach. Dropping his dagger to free both hands, Gurborian toppled one of the iron cressets to block Kasarian’s way, and grasping a heavy chair, he rammed it toward me, forcing me back against the stone wall.

  I tried desperately to squirm to one side, but the chair arm cruelly impacted my thigh. The pain was so severe that my sight clouded for an instant. When my vision cleared, I saw Kasarian wrench the supper-laden trestle table away from the wall and sling it side over end, sweeping Gurborian off his feet. Kasarian hastened to release me from the crushing weight of the chair. As I collapsed to the floor, the entire room seemed to slide sideways in the most sickening fashion. I had somehow held on to my staff, which was fortunate, for Gurborian, having regained his footing, was skulking behind Kasarian, raising a broken chair arm over his head. I managed to deliver a glancing poke to Gurborian’s ribs, partly defleeting his stroke so that the length of wood smote Kasarian’s upper right arm and shoulder instead of his skull. Gurborian snarled at me, and viciously kicked my outstretched leg. I felt the bone crack. He likely would have assailed me further, but Kasarian, surely half-stunned by the blow he’d taken, whirled around, interposing his sword, which he had transferred to his left hand.

  Gurborian hesitated, backing away from Kasarian’s naked blade. “Your right hand appears quite limp,” he observed with a savage grin. “Can it be that your arm is broken?”

  Kasarian smiled equally unpleasantly. “So paltry a blow could produce only a transient numbness and possibly a minor bruise,” he said, executing a complex flourish with his blade. “Arms Master Shivar insisted during my earliest training that I develop expert skill with either hand. Do not indulge in any false hopes that you have disabled me.”

  Gurborian growled several Alizonian words which I did not know, but their import was obviously insulting. Kasarian’s expression hardened. He regarded Gurborian with icy scorn, and declared, “You bring disgrace upon the Line Sired by Reptur.”

  Suddenly, I smelled the sharp scent of scorched or burning fabric. Coals from the overturned cresset had ignited torn chair upholstery, Gurborian’s cloak, and a tangled tablecloth ripped loose during the earlier phase of the duel. To my immediate distress, bright flames were feeding along the debris, drawing ever nearer to my injured legs, which I could not move no matter how hard I tried. Desperate, I waved my staff to attract Kasarian’s attention.

  Kasarian

  As Gurborian warily retreated from my sword’s reach, he cast unforgiveable aspersions upon my sire’s breeding, thus providing more than ample grounds for slitting his throat had I not already determined to kill him.

  From the corner of my eye, I sensed a frantic movement. Unable to attract my attention by crying out, Mereth was waving her staff. The cresset’s spilled coals had ignited debris scattered on the floor, and a line of fire was licking toward her. At once, I slashed a panel of tapestry from the wall and cast it, tentlike, over Gurborian. I knew that even such a heavy fabric would not contain him for long. Although somewhat hampered by my numbed right arm, I cast aside my sword, seized the overturned trestle table by its edge, ramming it over against the far wall to squeeze the swathed Gurborian behind it.

  I could then turn to assist Mereth. There was no time to skirt around the mounting flames fed by Gurborian’s discarded cloak and other wreckage. I reached directly through the fire to haul Mereth to safety. Using Gratch’s unburnt cloak, I smothered the worst of the flames and dispersed the remaining coals and debris.

  Mereth

  Kasarian sped to assist me, thrusting his bare hands unflinchingly through the flames to grab my boots and pull me away from the mounting danger.

  Having untangled himself from Kasarian’s impediments, Gurborian emerged like a wounded boar from its den, his eyes wild, blood welling from a scrape on his forehead. He had retrieved his dagger, and lumbered toward us, intent upon striking Kasarian while he was distracted with my rescue. Alert to his approach, Kasarian executed a tumbler’s roll, snatched up his own sword, and leaped back to guard me.

  In his single-minded frenzy to penetrate Kasarian’s defense, Gurborian dashed at us, but stumbled when his foot struck one of the fallen goblets. Instantly, Kasarian lunged, slicing Gurborian’s outflung hand. Unable to check his forward progress, Gurborian fell heavily. He lay motionless on the floor for the space of a heartbeat, then gave a chilling cry. As he rolled over, we could see that in addition to the sword cut on his hand, he had impaled himself upon his own dagger. In obvious agony, Gurborian pleaded in a choking voice, “Kill me, I beg you—this blade is steeped in flesh-rot poison!”

  Kasarian warily neared his fallen foe, but not close enough to come within dagger reach. What he saw prompted him to take three rapid steps and pierce Gurborian through the heart. After withdrawing and wiping his sword, Kasarian dropped to one knee beside Gurborian’s body. When he stood up, I saw for just an instant the glitter of something silver in his hand before he thrust it into his tunic pocket and hurried back to me.

  Had my leg pain not been so overwhelming, I would have smiled at the disgusted expression on Kasarian’s face. Our violent combat had produced deplorable disorder. I had seen enough of his living quarters to know that Kasarian preferred everything around him to be maintained neatly in place. He was now obviously far more annoyed by the disarray and damages to his audience chamber than by his own injuries.

  He stooped to lift me up. Having previously experienced his raw strength first hand during the postern transit, and now having seen his fighting energy, I was surprised by his gentle touch. He eased me into the only unbroken chair, then turned toward the barred doors.

  I brushed tears of pain from my cheeks as I watched with trepidation. We could hear no further sounds of battle from the hall outside, but we could not know which force of retainers had triumphed—Krevonel’s or Reptur’s.

  Kasarian

  No further sounds of combat emanated from the hall, but I felt it was still advisable to proceed prudently. I eased the bar out of its supports. Then, sword in hand, I quietly opened the right-hand door.

  It was as well that I forbore from rushing out into the hall. Bodrik was poised just outside with a poleax, ready to strike our enemies, had they prevailed. I complimented him on his preparedness. He reported that all of Reptur’s men were dead, along with two of ours.

  “Come within,” I ordered. “We must hasten to dispose of our primary guests. Baron Gurborian unwisely chose flesh-rot poison for his dagger, so observe the necessary precautions.”

  Bodrik glanced at what was left of Gurborian, and smiled. “The safest way to transport yon carrion to the river will be to wrap it in some
of the downed tapestry cloth,” he said. After appraising the chaotic state of the chamber, Bodrik added, “Gennard will be sore vexed, Master. He dislikes spills and stains, so he does. I wager he’ll complain of the damage as well.”

  “Gennard can attend to the cleaning in the morning,” I observed. “Be sure none of the poison soaks through when you lift the . . . residue. Gratch’s body will not require special handling; his darts were evidently prepared with smother root. I shall be occupied attending to the Worthy Baron’s injuries. We may be obliged to consult a bonesetter.”

  Bodrik saluted Mereth respectfully, then departed to assemble his work party. I lifted Mereth in my arms and carried her as quickly as I could to the nearest passage-way leading to Krevonel’s vaults.

  Fortunately, my right hand had recovered from the effects of Gurborian’s blow. Had Mereth not so ably employed her staff to deflect his stroke at my head, I should likely have been killed. It was frustrating not being able to ask her the extent of her bodily injury. She had shut her eyes, but I did not know whether she was wearied or had swooned from pain or weakness. I dared not stop to request that she write upon her slate. Having broken bones myself in falls during hunts and melees, I presumed she must be enduring considerable pain. I attempted to proceed as fast as I could with the minimum of jarring. Even so, the journey to the postern chamber seemed interminable. I was particularly gratified that due to forethought, I had slipped down earlier in the evening to kindle the slowest burning torches. We were therefore assured of a minimal lighted path had we been forced to make a hasty—or fighting—retreat to the postern once we secured Elsenar’s jewel. Striding with Mereth in my arms, I had no free hand to carry a torch or taper.