‘Sorry for the landing,’ he said as he picked himself up. He unspoke the shield, and the storm burst over them, soaking them to the skin.
‘We made it from the cave,’ Maud said. ‘I wasn’t sure we would, so I’d say you did great.’ She looked back at the dark mountains they’d flown across and shook her head. ‘You’re quite a lad, Spellwarden,’ she said, without turning.
‘Yet now we must walk through the rain,’ Basil said in a mournful voice, and they both laughed.
When Basil and Maud arrived at the ruin, it was fast approaching midnight. The storm gave no sign of abating, and by now, the exhausted Spellwarden hung on Maud’s arm as he stumbled toward the tower. He saw his brother sitting in the rain at the riverside, arms around his legs as he stared at the water hurrying past.
‘Jurgis!’ Basil croaked, but the winds blew his voice away.
‘I’ll do it,’ Maud said. At her lioness’s roar, Jurgis jumped to his feet, his face blooming with relief, and came running.
‘You’re safe! You’re both safe!’
‘Thanks to Basil,’ Maud said. ‘Help him; my arm is numb from keeping him upright. He had a tough walk, but he didn’t want me to carry him.’
‘You all right?’ Jurgis drew an arm around his brother’s waist. ‘What went wrong?’
‘Broom spell expired.’ Basil cursed through clenched teeth as he tried to stand on his toeless foot. ‘I walked the last miles.’
‘Come inside. Wargall and I cleaned away some rubble,’ Jurgis said. ‘Now there’s enough space to sit. At least it’s dry.’
‘Lovely.’ With his arm around Jurgis’ shoulder, Basil hobbled to the tower. Inside the door, he halted and stared around. ‘Must have been a grand hall once.’ He looked at the large fireplace, now half filled with debris, and the delicate carvings of the mantelpiece. ‘A pity to see it ruined.’
‘Here, sit down,’ Jurgis said, uninterested in the tower’s former glory.
Basil lowered himself and jumped up again when something poked him hard in the stomach. ‘Ouch! Damn.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘That cursed flask of yours, brother.’ Basil put his hand in his tunic and produced the pint-sized bottle Jurgis had dug up in the sea cave. ‘I’d forgotten all about it, so snugly it lay, but now it hit me right between the ribs. I’ll throw ... Wait, there’s something in it. A letter of sorts.’ He sat down again and tried to get at the cork.
‘Gods, a message in a bottle,’ Jurgis said.
‘The cork is swollen with water. My fingers aren’t strong enough to get it out.’ Basil looked around. ‘Wargall?’
‘He’s somewhere around, hoping to find treasure.’
The Spellwarden sighed and shouted, ‘Wargall? Come and help us, dear.’
The boy came running. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s this bottle from the cave. Could you get it open for us?’
‘Give,’ Wargall said, and snatched the bottle from Basil’s hands.
‘Hey! Don’t break the glass, barbarous brute.’
Wargall sniffed. With care he wriggled the cork, before exerting his strength. Then he pulled and with a loud pop, the cork shot out of the bottle’s neck.
‘Open.’ The boy grinned at Basil. He held the bottle upside-down and a rolled paper fell out. ‘Let’s see what it says.’
Basil folded his arms and waited with raised eyebrows.
Wargall unrolled the document and looked it over. Then his face fell. ‘It’s some outlander handwriting,’ he said, disappointed. ‘I can’t read that.’
‘May I have it back, then?’ Basil said.
With a sheepish grin, the boy handed him the paper.
‘Nice try, mate,’ Jurgis said without expression. Then he punched Wargall’s shoulder.
‘It’s Unwaari,’ Basil said. ‘Of course I can read it.’
Maud sat with her back against the outer wall, looking as if she was asleep. ‘Well, tell us,’ she said, opening one eye.
With a groan, Basil dropped down beside her. ‘It’s a page torn from a book,’ he said. ‘The handwriting looks as if it’s done in a hurry.’ He puzzled over the lines, his lips moving. Then he looked up at the others, all watching him.
‘It’s them!’ he said. ‘Now I know what happened to the Faces. Gods, what a find!’
Jurgis sat up. ‘It’s important?’
‘Very much so, dear heart. Listen.
Why do I write this? I know I’m going to die, do I need a confession? No! I did all for the greater glory of Aera. I have been her devoted son all my life. Oh my Goddess ... Why have you deserted me? You whispered in my ear. Every night I heard your voice in my head. You told me the High Priesthood should be mine, because among all my brothers, you loved me best.
Yet lesser men got preferment and I could not let that happen. I was Aera’s beloved son! So I rejoiced when I was chosen to fetch the Wind Face of Aera from the Tower of Winds.
I made my plans, and it started so well ... The storm on the way back ... The best storm I ever called. It sank our ship, but we got the masks safely aboard the captain’s gig. That first night in the open boat I killed my three brother singers while they slept. I needed their provisions, not their presence. Then I dropped their amulets overboard with them, that the depths would swallow their calls. The temple will hear three voices die, but mine will live and all will follow my progress. I will be the savior of the Faces! They will give me everything I ask for ....
My son, Vystyn, my son, where are you? Why didn’t you come as we planned, and bring me sustenance? Why do you leave me in this wretched boat, my son?
The coast is near. I will not make home. Too weak; it’s all I can do to write this letter.
I found a cave. Sailed the boat inside, in near darkness. The Faces are secure here, I can die in peace. I will seal the letter into this empty water bottle. They will find it when they answer my amulet’s call. I will hide in the chest with the masks. They will find me ....
Vystyn, my traitorous son ... I curse you ... for not coming to my aid ... I curse you, Vystyn!
Signed and sealed by Glastym, Senior Windsinger
Appalled, Basil leaned back against the tower wall. The singer’s betrayal shocked him. That the greed of one faithless servant could cause the death of thousands and the destruction of two nations. ‘It was planned,’ he said. ‘All was horribly planned.
‘No one came looking for him,’ Maud said, sitting up straight now.
‘Except our friend Felrich.’
Maud looked at Jurgis. ‘Yes, he must have discovered the cave, just like we did. Felrich forced the lock, took the chest with the masks, and left. He must have found it impossible to sell them and they stayed in the Daisee’s hold until we captured her.’
‘Just so,’ Basil said. ‘It was lucky for us he didn’t take the bottle or the amulet. This letter is the proof of Vanhaar’s innocence in the disappearance of the masks. Wargall my friend, do you have the cork somewhere?’
The boy searched through the rubble. ‘Yes, here you are.’
Basil returned the papers inside and replaced the cork. ‘Maud, could you keep this safe? It’s the most important document you’ll ever carry.’
Maud nodded. ‘I hope the gods have their way with this Glastym. No human punishment would be harsh enough for such perfidy.’
‘At least Fate was against him,’ Basil said. ‘For indeed, nobody came looking, though all of Unwaar was waiting for the Faces. When so close to home, the last signal stopped moving, they should’ve come to investigate. But they didn’t.’
‘As a signal, the call wouldn’t reach far,’ Jurgis said. ‘I heard it when we were near the cave, not before, though I was listening for magic towers.’
Basil stared at him. ‘That’s it. There was iron in that mountain. Remember those red walls young Wargall found so bloody? Iron and magic are mutually exclusive. For the singers, the last remaining signal disappeared at the Vanhaar coast.’
Maud sat w
ith her massive arms clasped around her legs, looking at the twins. ‘Where is that amulet now?’
Jurgis patted his shirt.
The lioness frowned. ‘Then why don’t you hear it?’
Jurgis blinked. ‘But I do. Loud and clear. Dammit, that’s how it works with me. If I’m not listening, my brain filters those things out. So the singers can hear its voice as well.’
‘We’d better assume they will, too.’ Basil frowned. ‘What shall we do? Throw it away? I would like to study the amulet, but we don’t want every singer hot on our heels.’
‘If its voice is stilled by iron, put the amulet in here.’ Maud produced a little metal box. ‘It was Hala’s,’ she said. ‘She kept some personal letters in it.’
Jurgis frowned as he dropped the amulet in the box. ‘You’re still carrying the veteran’s stuff?’
‘Of course not. Only her backpack is much larger than mine. I left most of her things on board, but I wanted to give the letters to the queen. In all the commotion I forgot.’
Jurgis knew he’d better not joke about it; his love still felt Hala’s death as something personal. ‘The trick works,’ he said. ‘I can’t hear it anymore.’
‘Then all is well.’ Basil relaxed and then his fatigue overtook him. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 25 - SHAMAN
Wemawee saw fear and a look like hatred cross her clanbrother’s face as he pushed her away. Shocked by his defiance, she stepped back, and all of a sudden the ground disappeared beneath her feet. She fell, the scream on her lips dying when a terrible flash shocked the breath from her lungs. For the tiniest of moments, she hung in an airless nothing, and then she landed on her back on a heap of stones. For a few heartbeats she lay there, stupefied. ‘Wargall!’ she croaked, but her clanbrother wasn’t there. ‘Gods!’ She became aware of the mount of rubble she’d fallen on. Pieces of some wall or floor bruised her flesh. Where am I? The portal? If that idiot warlock-boy was right ... Is this Vanhaar?
She picked herself up and straightened the gauze cover she wore. The material was non-sticking, always clean and yet transparent, showing the world her untouchable body. Her feet were bare; she must have lost her slippers in her scuffle with Wargall. Damn the boy! Hot with anger, she looked around. The room was a ruin. Part of the roof was gone, blown away by some powerful magic, and the night sky shone in. The portal she came through had suffered damage, but someone long ago must’ve repaired it. Creepers and little scrubs grew through the rubble that covered the cracked floor. She looked at the stars and frowned. Night. It had been early morning when she had stumbled through the portal. How far was it to Vanhaar? She had no idea.
Straight ahead was a door. She stepped over the debris and stretched out her hand to the handle, when the door flew open. Some six males stood gaping at her. In a reflex she straightened, gazing down at their scrawny bodies with the most imperious look she could muster.
One soldier, boasting a small plume on his helm, said something. It sounded Unwaari, but it was too fast for her to understand.
‘You should speak slower, male,’ she said frostily.
The man started. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am the Wisewoman Wemawee.’
‘A wisewoman? How did you come here unnoticed?’
‘That’s my business,’ she snapped.
‘Not really,’ the soldier said. The mean look in his eyes took her aback. ‘Everything that happens here is our business.’ He stared around the room. ‘You are alone?’
‘I am,’ Wemawee said. ‘And well able to defend myself.’
The soldier studied her from head to toe. ‘Your nakedness is stunning.’
Wemawee fumed. The infernal cheek to mention that! ‘I am a wisewoman. I dress as I see fit.’ She stepped forward. ‘Aside, I wish to leave.’
‘Not so fast,’ the soldier said. ‘Our shaman will want to see you. Come with me, please.’
She looked down at him. ‘You are impertinent. I could kill you for that, male.’
The soldier frowned and nodded. Wemawee sensed movement behind her, but before she could react, a heavy blow brought her to her knees. She cried out as four soldiers pressed her to the ground, and rough hands bound her arms together at her back. A heavy cloak thrown over her head and tied around her neck blinded her magic. Then the hands dragged her to her feet, ripping her thin robe away and touching her body. Wemawee wanted to scream in anger, but the cloth filled her mouth.
‘You are badly informed for a spy,’ the officer mocked. ‘Wisewomen have been forbidden for almost half a century. Since they were found plotting against the Lord Kelwarg, there is a kill-on-sight order against them. Take her away.’
‘Move!’ The hands gripping her arms pulled her along. It wasn’t far, but the ground was full of debris and the going rough. Her captors didn’t care about her comfort, and half dragged her stumbling over broken stone and wooden beams, till they stopped.
‘Get inside,’ said the same voice, and a hard shove sent her tumbling to the ground. The sound followed of a heavy door slamming shut and a wooden bar falling into place. She was alone, and for the first time in her life, terrified.
It didn’t take long before her captors reappeared. She heard footsteps and the commands of the officer. Then the door opened and someone came in.
‘So that’s the spy claiming to be a wisewoman.’ That was a deep voice, conjuring up images of a violent character. It made Wemawee shiver with its ruthlessness. ‘Take the cloak away; I want to see her face. Then get out.’
Hasty hands obeyed, as if they, too, were scared. They dragged the cloak from her head and dropped it. Then the door closed behind them.
The bit of light coming in through a hole high up in the wall showed her a room, a cell bare of furniture, with rough walls. Before her, a giant shadow moved and caught her eyes.
‘A child,’ the shadow with the deep voice said. He snapped his fingers, and a light appeared.
Wemawee gasped. Was this a shaman? The man was a Kell, but so different. So unexpectedly different! There was no trace in him of the gentleness she expected from males, nor of a warrioress’ disciplined fairness. This was a hungry male, rapacious for power. A face as black as hers, but pockmarked; painted in garish colors, with a sharp nose, a thin-lipped mouth. His long braids, interwoven with strands of hair in various colors, moved like tentacles. And how big he was! His giant muscles writhed as he moved. Wemawee couldn’t suppress a shudder. She’d often dreamed of males bigger than she was, but not this. Gods, not this at all.
‘Your name, child,’ he said, his voice and eyes distant, as if she was an insect.
She gathered her magic, but before she could do anything, the shaman slapped her. The blow nearly wrenched her neck, and she yelled. He spoke a curse in a harsh tone, and darkness descended on the part of her brain that held her magic. She cried out in shock.
‘Don’t think you can bewitch me, filthy she-dog,’ the shaman said, and the tone in his voice made her want to gibber. ‘Tell me your name!’
‘Wemawee,’ she said, amazed how weak she sounded. ‘Wemawee of the M’Arrangh.’
‘M’Arrangh?’ the shaman repeated, frowning. ‘And you came through the portal?’
‘Yes,’ Wemawee said in a whisper.
‘So it’s still working. Surprising. Why did you come here?’
‘I want to meet the Black Warlock.’
The shaman gripped her by the throat and pulled her to him. ‘Don’t call him that! He’s the Lord Kelwarg, clan chief of the M’Arrangh and the leader of all True Kells! What is your need of him?’
She couldn’t breathe and gave a painful whimper. The hand grasping her throat eased slightly. ‘I am of his clan,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘I am the last, so I thought to come and confer with him.’
‘You are the last Kell in Malgarth?’ the shaman said, and his grip stiffened.
She gargled, gasping at the little air his strangling hand allowed her. ‘
No!’ she croaked, forcing the words past the hard fingers around her throat. ‘I’m the last M’Arrangh in Malgarth. The other clans are strong and numerous.’
‘Strong and numerous.’ At this, the deep voice became thoughtful. ‘Are those clans aware you used the portal?’
Wemawee tried to concentrate. The lioness. She would know what had happened. Wargall would tell the rest; he was too honest not to. ‘Yes, they know.’
The shaman seemed to reach a decision. He let her drop back to the stone floor and opened the door. ‘You, soldier; get the cage wagon readied to transport this wretch to Bitter’ights. Tenman-thrice, take half of your men and come with me. We must go and close down that portal on the other side before the enemy can use it. There’s no danger; those degenerates won’t expect us to attack.’
‘But ...’ the plumed soldier said. ‘If we destroy that portal, how will we ...?’
‘I’m not a fool! We’ll be spellbound to return through the main portal here,’ the shaman said violently. ‘Now hurry!’
Wemawee explored her sore throat with her fingers. ‘Bitter’ights?’ she croaked.
‘I’ll fulfill your wish,’ the shaman said with terrible satisfaction. ‘You shall go to Kelwarg. He’ll use your soul for his spells.’
The girl coughed, trying to force the pain down. ‘Why?’
‘Because we don’t allow wisewomen to live. No more female magic.’ The shaman picked her up by the throat and shook her like a wet cloak. ‘I’d kill you myself, if you weren’t a M’Arrangh. But Kelwarg has something special arranged for his kinswomen.’ He snorted in disgust, and threw her against the wall. Without another word, the shaman walked out and barred the door behind him.
Shocked to her core, Wemawee lay still. Her whole body ached, but worst was the pain in her heart. She knew it now, and the knowledge was almost too hard to bear. She knew she’d been an utter, raving fool. The stories had been true; those unTurned males were power-mad and murderous. Killing all wisewomen! She lay still, listening to the silence and thinking. Out. I must get out of here.
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