by Dave Duncan
“I believe my duty is to avoid sorcery, ma’am,” he said suspiciously. Could this be some devious scheme to disqualify him from the succession?
“A foreseeing would not contravene that obligation. There are precedents.”
“May I ask your purpose in telling me this?”
She looked back at him with those strangely angled eyes glinting out of the dark. “Ask not the price of gifts. Prince Emshandar. Times are troubled. I… Just say I am applying a random factor in the hope of diverting certain events that seem to be well-nigh inevitable. I may not do more.” She seemed to shiver.
“Is this the millennium business again?”
She sighed. “Truly. Now I must go. These are sad times, your Highness, and like to become sadder.”
“Tell me more!”
She shook her head within the cowl. “I may have already transgressed the Gods’ interdict.”
Again she seemed about to leave. He leaped up and reached overhead to twist the lantern, flashing a faint beam into her hood. He caught a glimpse of a face as ancient as war, deeply lined with age and pain. He sensed suffering. Her pupils were a pale shade and large. Her nose was wide, like a faun’s. Elvish, yet not elvish. Sadness and pity.
She turned quickly away into the crowd and was gone, although he was not sure how, or where. He sat down, perplexed.
“Ugh!” Umpily said, picking something out of his bowl. “What beast did this come from?”
In the wavering gloom, Acopulo peered at the object with scholarly interest. “It appears to be the jawbone of a hippogryph.”
“Hippogryphs don’t have jawbones!”
“It was delicious anyway,” Ylo said, resuming his seat. His wolfskin was draped over one shoulder. His hair was tousled; he was pink and breathless. “Oh! I didn’t think I had eaten quite so much.” He glanced reproachfully at Umpily.
“I’m astonished,” Acopulo said dryly. “You have exhausted neither the fifteen minutes allotted nor yourself, apparently. Is that not remarkable. Legate?”
“Commendable,” Shandie said. His heartbeat was slowly returning to normal. Obviously his companions had heard nothing of the bizarre conversation. “Very efficient. What do you know of Wold Hall, gentlemen?”
“The Treaty of Wold Hall?” Acopulo said, frowning. “Signed in… around… 2900. Dwarves.”
“It was a hunting lodge,” Umpily said, “favored by the Impress Abnila. Used for secret conferences sometimes. Somewhere on the Great East Way, I believe.”
There are precedents. If the Impress Abnila had consulted a preflecting pool, then her great-great-grandson certainly could.
“It may be around here, then,” Shandie said. “Can you find out for me?”
Surprised, Umpily nodded. “If it is in the neighborhood.” He pushed away his bowl and drained the tankard. Then he licked his spoon to tuck it back in his pouch. “I think I saw a selection of cheeses over there on the bar.” He heaved his bulk up and pushed away through the mob.
“What do you know of preflecting pools?” Shandie asked.
Acopulo’s scrawny face narrowed in astonishment. “As much as any, which is little. The dear doctor made a study of such devices and discovered almost nothing. I have heard opinions that preflecting pools are more dependable than magic casements, which promote only the interests of the house. The pools may be more limited in scope, but less devious. They supposedly give honest answers to the inquirer. Talking statues, of course, are something else again…”
“Thank you,” Shandie said quickly. “I was told once that there was a preflecting pool at Wold Hall.”
The priestly face lit up with interest. “If that is so, then it would be worth a visit.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Shandie said.
“Shall we be staying here awhile, then?” Ylo asked thoughtfully.
4
Wold Hall, or what was left of it, stood in a rugged glen about a league west of the inn—so the innkeeper had reported, and the travelers found the turnoff without trouble. The rain had gone and a quarter moon floated among silver clouds, but dawn could not be far off. An ancient military road wandered away over the hills, then plunged steeply down into woodland. The horses soon became as jumpy as fleas.
It was hard to blame them, for the wind rustled leaves overhead, spattering cold drops of water at random, while the footing was a treacherous medley of rocks and mud and puddles.
The obvious danger was making Hardgraa petulant. Had the centurion known of the mysterious shrouded woman, he would have become mutinous, but everyone assumed that Shandie had dreamed up the expedition on his own and had been planning it for some time.
They all wanted to wait until daylight, of course, but that would have meant staying on all night, as well, to see the pool by moonlight. The moon might not be visible the next night; there might be no pool at all. The whole thing could even be a well-organized assassination plot, but Shandie hated reversing a decision once he had made it. He knew that streak of stubbornness might land him in trouble one day; he just hoped this was not the day.
Then an owl glided overhead, spooking Ylo’s horse, which was the most skittish. Skilled rider though he was, he almost went into the mud. Shandie called a halt. The legionaries were left to tend the mounts and the others set off on foot. The civilians were well shod, but the soldiers had to manage in regulation army sandals.
A half hour’s misery brought them to an imposing wall, of standard military construction—when the legions weren’t fighting, they were always kept busy building something. It was in sad disrepair, showing evidence that the locals had been quarrying it for building stone. The gates were missing, doubtless long since melted down; Shandie led the way through the gap, into a tangle of unkempt forest.
Numerous jagged walls within the undergrowth hinted at former farm buildings and remains of guard barracks, all roofless now and decayed among the encroaching jungle. The whole complex would likely have held a population of several hundred in its days of glory.
Eventually the half-buried path led to a clearing before the main building itself, stark in the moonlight. One end was obviously very old, the other could be dated by its pointed arches to about the time of the great impress. It had all been gutted by fire. Its windows were gaunt as sockets in a skull.
The sky was already growing brighter.
“Let’s split up,” Shandie suggested. “The pool must be somewhere around here.”
“Sir!” Hardgraa rumbled warningly. He had been carrying his sword in his hand since leaving the horses. “You have no idea who or what may live here!”
“Whoever it is, it doesn’t trample weeds.” Shandie strode off to begin exploring.
No squatters were discovered before a shout from the portly Umpily brought the others to inspect his find. He was standing on a terrace, overshadowed by trees. Weeds and roots had thrust up the paving stones and the flanking balustrade was half in ruin. A flight of stone stairs led down to a gleam of water directly below.
“Not very impressive,” Acopulo remarked with a disparaging sniff. “I certainly don’t recommend drinking from it.”
“I wouldn’t water a horse at it,” Shandie agreed, scowling at silvery scum and odd wisps of mist that drifted over the surface.
“You couldn’t get a horse to it.”
And that was obviously true. The pool was smaller than he had expected, but its edges were concealed by trailing shrubs and willow trees, so it might be larger than it seemed. The sides of the hollow rose steeply, the steps being the only visible access.
“What does one do?” Umpily inquired, coughing in the morning damp. The air was cool and everyone was shivery with lack of sleep. “Chant at it, or invoke it, or jump in?” He sounded unwilling to do any of those things.
“You put one foot in it,” Shandie explained, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Right foot to see what you should seek, left foot to see what you should shun.” No one asked where he had learned such flummer
y—they all knew that he spoke with warlocks.
“One prophecy per customer?” Acopulo said.
“Sounds like that.” Shandie headed for the top of the stairway. The woman had implied that the pool was in magical disrepair. There might only be one prophecy per night, and if so he intended to have it for himself. More likely nothing at all would happen and he was going to make a fool of himself.
The steps were unsteady, caked in loam, masked in shadow. He felt his way down very cautiously, one uneven tread at a time, while steadying himself with a hand on the mossy blocks of the wall. Unless the construction was a faked antique, this part of the complex predated Abnila by centuries. It might have been a mundane pool at first, of course, and been ensorceled later.
He almost stepped into water before he realized, for the steps continued on, under the surface.
From the last dry slab he looked across a dark and oily expanse much larger than it had seemed from up high. The wind did not penetrate into the hollow. The slowly writhing traces of mist were more obvious at this level, as unpleasantly eerie as the pallid patches of scum. There was no color in the moonlight. He could see the moon reflected, of course, and the silvered edge of clouds and the trees. No water weeds or lilies, but there was an odd scent—not decay, but almost sweet, like a hint of incense.
Leaning over, he could make out his own reflection, his helmet shining. The heads of his companions stood out against the sky, as they peered over the balustrade to watch him. He hoped they did not lean too hard and bring it all crashing down.
Dawn was advancing, so he must make a move. Did he want to know of danger—the face, perhaps, of a future assassin, or a traitor? He was well protected always and would be even better protected in future. Every man must die at last, and he certainly did not want to view his own death. Nor would there be much value in a prophecy of some catastrophe in the far future—he assumed he would live to a ripe antiquity, like his grandfather.
To ask to see the good news might merely produce an image of his beloved Eshiala, of course. That might not be an earth-shattering revelation, but at least it would make the side trip worthwhile. And he had so many reforms he wanted to introduce when he mounted the throne—perhaps this sorcery could help him decide where to start? He leaned against the wall and removed his right sandal. Then he put his bare foot in the water.
The next step was deeper than he had expected. Furthermore, the water was warm, when he had expected coldness. That surprised him so much that he almost toppled in bodily. Steadying himself with a hand on the wall again, he rested his weight on the slimy slab and waited until the widening ripples died away. Warm water explained the mist, on a cold morning.
The surface cleared very slowly, surprisingly slowly. Gradually the reflections steadied—the moon, the clouds, the mists. Trees. His own face. All dark and indistinct.
Except that the moon was now full.
No, it was a pale image of the sun. All the random shapes of mist and scum and shadows and reflections had subtly reformed into a meaningful pattern—an indistinct, alien landscape. He was seeing a daylight view darkened as by smoky glass. First, he made out a distant castle, on a peak. Then he picked out the summer cloud behind it, dimmed to patches of pale gray. The stretch of water in the foreground must be the sea, for waves were running onto a beach. So that angular rock was an island, and now he saw that there was a town on the slope below the towers.
Where was this? What use was a prophecy that he couldn’t identify? Just as he was about to call out to ask the others if they knew the place, he realized that what he had thought to be his own reflection was someone else. He was staring into the puzzled eyes of a boy, a young jotunn in the shabby work clothes of a fisherman or farmhand. He was standing in the foreground with his hands in his pockets.
Startled, Shandie moved. Ripples flowed out from his shin; the image was gone. Tight with excitement, he waited for it to re-form. This time the water stilled more quickly, but the moon was again at the quarter and there was no castle, no boy. The magic show was over.
He retrieved his right foot, removed the other sandal, and tried with his left foot. The water seemed much colder and the ripples faded swiftly; he was going to be shown nothing more. One prophecy to a customer.
Carrying his sandals, he walked up the stair, feeling exceedingly frustrated. Perhaps the poor old thing had tried its best for him, but its best had been unsatisfying. His journey had been wasted. At the same time, he felt uneasy at the spookiness of sorcery. He was much more familiar with the occult than most mundanes. As a child, he had once watched the wardens all materialize in Emine’s Rotunda, and that same evening he had seen a sorcerer vanish in a pillar of fire. He had sat in the visitors’ gallery when Witch Grunth appeared in the Senate chamber to receive the address of welcome upon her accession. Olybino had been a frequent visitor during his military days. But he was not so familiar with the occult that he could feel blasé about it.
“You came a long way to wash your feet,” Acopulo remarked snidely, “if I may say so!” He was the only one of the group who might say so and he knew it. Even so, he was presuming far.
Shandie ignored the irreverence. “You saw nothing?”
“You did?” the scholar demanded.
The others had not made a sound, but their silent shock was unquestionable.
“Yes, I saw a vision of a castle and a town, but where it was I have no idea. And I saw a boy. Fifteen or sixteen, maybe.” Shandie thought for a moment. “A jotunn, but an odd face. His eyes seemed dark, although it was hard to tell colors. His hair needed a good brushing… reminded me of someone, but I don’t know who. And you saw nothing?”
No, they all said, they had seen nothing.
“And my other foot got nothing, so it is one per person. One of you try, then. By the way—the water is quite warm. It shocked me so much I almost fell in.”
The others exchanged uneasy glances, none willing to claim precedence.
“Dawn will be here shortly,” Acopulo said. “You go first, Signifer, and we grown-ups can take our time on the stairs.”
With a glance to Shandie for his consent, Ylo hurried off. The two civilian advisors followed.
Shandie put on his sandals. Then he leaned on the crumbling balustrade with Hardgraa and watched the procession going down. “You will not venture, Centurion?”
“Not unless you want me to, sir. I’d rather not know.”
“Sensible man! All I’ve gotten out of this is an Evil-begotten mystery that will probably worry me for years. Every time I go near the sea, I shall wonder. Our young friend is going to go with the right foot, also. I expect he will see cohorts of gorgeous women.”
Hardgraa grunted. “Probably! The other foot would show legions of angry husbands.”
Shandie chuckled. He was always taken unaware when the gruff old campaigner chose to reveal his sense of humor. “More'n likely!”
The ripples were barely visible from the terrace, Shandie noticed. He could see nothing unusual happening in the pool.
Ylo seemed to have witnessed something, though, for he made a remark to Acopulo, who had now reached the bottom. The two exchanged a few words. The little man laughed. He sat down carefully and Ylo helped him remove his boot—his right boot. The signifer came trotting up the stairs, slowing only to pass the wide bulk of Umpily.
“Well?” Shandie said as Ylo reached the top. “The most beautiful woman in the world?”
“Oh, yes! You saw her?” The brightening sky gave enough light now to show the excitement on the signifer’s face.
“No. I was just guessing. Really? That’s what you saw?”
Ylo nodded agreement so vigorously that his wolf ears flapped. “Yes, your Highness! Absolutely… Beyond description!”
“Lying naked on a bed?”
“In a garden, but, yes. Naked.” Ylo sighed deeply. “Incredible!”
Well, he ought to be a good judge.
Hardgraa made a soft snorting noise. “I ho
pe you noted her features so you’ll recognize her when you meet in public?”
“I’ll know her anywhere!” Ylo promised.
Shandie wished he was as confident about his own vision. When he got back to Hub, he would crack a whip over the Imperial bureaucracy and demand a list of all offshore islands with castles on them. The sun had been low behind the island, so it must lie off either the east coast or the west, not north or south. The search would keep the quill-pushers out of trouble for a while. But it would not explain the strange woman who had initiated this seance, a woman who claimed she did not fear the wardens.
Down below, Umpily was gingerly lowering his left foot into the water. Acopulo was mounting the steps, carrying his right boot.
“Any luck?” Shandie called.
“I saw something,” the little man said, but he added nothing more until he had reached the terrace. “But not very helpful.”
“You wish to tell me in private?”
“No. It’s certainly not worth keeping secret.” The political advisor sat down stiffly on a section of fallen balustrade and pulled on his boot. “I saw my old mentor, the venerated Doctor Sagorn.” He sniffed.
During his student years, Shandie had heard Acopulo relate many tales of the great sage, too many tales. “Is he still alive, then?”
“I don’t see how he can possibly be. He was old as the Protocol when I knew him, and that was thirty years ago.” Acopulo screwed up his wizened features. “I seem to have been granted a retroactive prophecy! One should trust in the Gods and not such sorcerous gimcrackery.” He had already forgotten that he had recommended the experiment himself.
“His Lordship is going with the left foot,” Hardgraa remarked thoughtfully.
Acopulo lowered his voice. “He may be seeking news of his dear wife! I suspect a lack of trust!” He snickered maliciously.
“His wife died almost a year ago,” Shandie said. “You didn’t know?”
The scholar choked and began spluttering apologies. Feeling that he had been rather malicious himself, Shandie pulled a face and turned away to wait for the fat man. Umpily had sat down on the stairs to replace his boot. He took his time coming up. The sky was blue and the moon a faint smudge now, half hidden in cloud.
