Only now did Will see Elders of the Sightless Ones come in to accompany both parties. The robes of the two groups of Fellows were of different colours and cuts, and Will wondered if that was significant. Perhaps they were rival sects. Perhaps different chapter houses vied with one another in matters of influence. It was a question Will had never considered. The Fellows themselves gave little away, for their doings were arcane and their public face always as cold as alabaster.
Will’s eyes darted back to the queen, and he felt again the pungency and ill-temper that emanated from her. It was worrying to realize that one misplaced word spoken now, one dagger produced in wrath, and a running fight would break out that would see them all dead. Will’s toes, clad in their leather shoes, felt the muffled currents running in torrents through the earth nearby. His eyes settled once more on the king, and he recognized a man labouring under a spell.
Gwydion stood solemnly to one side, watching the opening formalities closely. The hoods of many of the Sightless Ones were turned to him, as if the Elders were gauging the wizard with some unnatural sense.
‘Your king receives his loyal subjects in audience…’ Though King Hal was near two-score years in age, his voice was eerie – part child’s, part that of an old man. He spoke in short, stilted phrases and seemed not to know the meaning of what he said.
Duke Richard’s eyes were steely as he returned the empty formulas that protocol demanded. He added, ‘His grace’s loyal duke, Richard of Ebor, humbly bids him welcome to this, his strong castle of Ludford. Yet he must enquire the reason so many have come hither, and ask why so great a host stands ready in arms…’
Will almost cried out then, for his wandering eye had recognized another face among the king’s retinue. There, standing not far from Lord Dudlea, was one dressed in the style of a lord of the Blessed Isle. He wore trews and the leine, a belted shirt of linen, and a cloaked feile, or mantle, of black and moss-green chequered wool. He carried the two-handed sword slung at his back, and on his hand was a silver ring studded with a gem of glistering green.
Morann!
The loremaster kept a straight face but winked at Will, who could not help but show his surprise.
By the moon and stars! he thought. Gwydion must have planted him in the king’s court as a spy. So that was the errand that couldn’t wait.
The diplomatic exchanges went on.
‘…and therefore, Sire, this duke must ask for what reason his kinsman was prevented from going upon his lawful way and was outrageously attacked upon Blow Heath by men whose loyalties have never…’
Will grew impatient with it. Everyone knew that the king was an empty shell who did little more than repeat lines whispered to him by his queen. But as Will changed his mind’s focus a thrill of danger stabbed him without warning. His eyes moved to the dappled light that at first seemed no more than sunshine filtering through dying leaves. But now he saw something else. A strange rippling had started a little way behind the queen’s throne. The light there scintillated and glistened like the fur of Pangur Ban when he walked in moonlight, like the hood of the old man at the Plough Inn who had once turned into Gwydion…
The more Will concentrated on the sparkling light the less he saw. He cautiously opened his mind to it, and then a dark shape began to spin together. It was horrible. A pang of terror ran to earth down his spine, raised all the hairs on his neck. A cautious glance at Gwydion showed that the wizard’s attention was on the parley. No one but the queen suspected the figure that whispered behind the thrones. He knew with a hammering heart that it could only be Maskull.
Once before, Will’s inborn talent had enabled him to penetrate Maskull’s wiles. Years ago, at the royal hunting lodge of Clarendon, while Jarred, the king’s conjuror, had juggled coloured fire in the air, Will’s innocent eye had looked straight through Maskull’s shrouding sorcery. His newborn sensitivity had emerged clean and keen, and had perceived Maskull shimmering like the spectre of Death.
That time, Will had not understood, but now he did, and the knowledge that Gwydion’s great enemy was here unbeknown to him jolted him like a blow to the face. He stiffened, prompted by insistent warnings in his mind. He longed to kick off his borrowed shoes and run. Sweat ran down his freshly shaved neck and prickled under his collar. He felt smotheringly hot under the lordly velvets. He dared not look back towards the sorcerer. He could not stop the visions flooding back of the dreadful time when Maskull had raised him up in magical fire to roast him and make him scream high above the Giant’s Ring. He swallowed, resisting an overpowering desire to wipe away a drop of sweat that had started down from his hairline. Then his left hand strayed to his sword, and he grasped the counter-weight at the end of the hilt.
It was the worst thing he could have done. Instantly two dozen eyes snapped towards him.
He took his hand away again, very slowly. That wasn’t very clever, he told himself. What if Maskull had seen? What if he’d recognized you?
He noted the questioning look from Morann as all his senses began to rage and his face paled. He could say nothing, could offer no warning to Gwydion as his courage shrivelled. What was preventing Maskull from acting? Surely, he could strike here and now with impunity. All it would take would be a surprise bolt of purple fire – Gwydion, Duke Richard and all his henchmen would be burned. Even the troublesome duke’s heir would die. And all at the cost of a few young hostages who had no more value to a sorcerer than wood lice. What was he waiting for?
But for all Maskull’s advantage, he did nothing. The meaningless lordly talk went on, back and forth, counted against a thousand of Will’s heartbeats. He ignored the highflown words, and instead he let Morann’s steady gaze bolster him until he could get a grip on his panic.
Maskull, veiled in invisibility, remained occupied behind the queen’s throne. His suggestions were spoken to the severe beauty who in turn muttered replies for the king to speak aloud. Slowly, Will began to gather together the shreds of his calm. He forced himself to look at the king whenever he spoke, and to keep his glances natural. He closed his mind to the tantalizing ripples that tore the air near the thrones, and bit by bit the sorcerer’s ghastly shroud repaired itself under his gaze.
‘…therefore, Duke Richard of Ebor, hear our solemn promise. We invite you to come again into our royal presence at the hour of terce upon the morrow, and here receive at our hand all the guarantees that you ask of us.’
No! Will wanted to shout out. Don’t agree to that. Don’t pledge your word to come here a second time.
But he could not speak. He watched, dumbly unable to intervene, as the duke made his promise. Richard of Ebor gave his word that he would show himself before the king again tomorrow. And then the parley was done.
You must say something, Will told himself. But his throat was as dry as dust. You must warn Gwydion. And he must warn the duke. The king is not speaking in good faith. Maskull is here, and we’re all caught up in a deadly trap!
That the duke’s party rode back to the castle in good order and in safety was Gwydion’s doing. The wizard kept Will’s mouth closed until they had crossed the moat and the inner ward and had hurried to Gort’s rooms.
Neither Gort nor Willow were there as the spells began to fall away from Will’s jaw. But they did not fall fast enough and he slammed the door behind him in frustration. ‘Mmmmmmmmmh!’
Gwydion seized him angrily. ‘What are you trying to do, you young fool? Did you mean to bring down the whole negotiation? Did you not see how delicately things were balanced?’
‘Gwydion!’ Will whispered fiercely as soon as the spell released his throat. ‘You don’t understand! He was here! In person! In the tent!’
The wizard started as the truth slammed home. He let go of Will’s shoulders. ‘Maskull? Maskull was in the parley tent?’
‘That’s what I was trying to tell you when you muted me!’
Gwydion stared, shocked. He seemed unable to believe it, and shook his head. ‘This cannot be. It was some k
ind of falsehood. You were suffering from an emanation of the Ludford Stone. It was a vision!’
‘It was no vision, Gwydion, I swear it! You must believe that! Maskull is here!’
The wizard sat down, his face grimmer than Will had ever seen it. ‘This changes much that I had planned. Truly he must have bathed in the Spring of Celamon…’
‘He must have had a reason not to blast us all where we stood – though I really can’t see it!’
Gwydion’s brow knotted. ‘He is at pains to remain hidden because he believes I am, as yet, unaware of his return. He does not know I was called by you to witness the destruction of Little Slaughter. He does not know that I found the door through which he emerged from the Realm Below.’
‘You did that?’ Will asked, astonished.
‘We both did, for you were there, Willand. You watched me examine the broken door.’
‘I don’t remember any broken door…’
‘Come, now! The gold vault under the ruined chapter house. The one we visited near Nadderstone.’
‘That?’ Will recalled the twisted iron that had barred the way into the dark chasm beyond, and the dank airs that had risen up from the hole. The smell had been redolent of a whole dark world down below.
Gwydion put his face in his hands momentarily. ‘Those bars were torn apart by Maskull’s magic. The Fellows must have been surprised, though far from pleased I imagine, to find one such as he appearing in the bowels of their house.’
‘Maybe that’s the real reason Isnar decided to pull the chapter house down.’
‘We shall never know.’
Will’s mind was spinning. ‘You say Maskull didn’t begin a fight in the tent because he didn’t want to show himself to you. But what would that matter if a surprise attack had killed everyone who stood in his way?’
Gwydion’s eyes were half-lidded. ‘A surprise attack such as you describe could not have succeeded.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it would not have killed me. I possess many charms against Maskull’s array of magical weapons.’
‘They didn’t save you when you duelled with him at the Giant’s Ring.’
‘A well-prepared attack was made against me at the Giant’s Ring, but even that would not have killed me, only denied me form and therefore delayed me. Also—’ The wizard motioned Will to sit down. ‘Also, Maskull knows that a violent stroke such as you suggest would not have the desired effect in the long run.’
Will rested his weight on the table’s edge. ‘You’d better explain.’
‘Maskull believes he has found a way to live forever. He was once like me, one of the Ogdoad. You know that, well enough, but you still do not fully understand what it means. We are not immortal, Will. We live only so long as there is enough magic remaining in the world to sustain us. That is why our numbers have declined as the Ages have declined.’
‘You make it sound as if there’s a great hole in the world through which all the magic is escaping.’
‘You are not so far from the truth in your guess. However, the task of the Ogdoad has always been to act as pathfinders for men. It is our job to bring about the best of all possible futures as magic inevitably leaves the world unprotected. In these latter days Maskull turned against the Old Ways. By the time Semias made his choice, it had become clear to Maskull that he would have to take the long road to the Far North himself and leave me to become the last phantarch. He cast about for another way until he had found the means to switch the fate of the world onto a new path. This, he hopes, will bring it to the destination he desires. He intends to guide the world along that path, though it will bring the Old Ways to final ruin. He cares not that there will in consequence be war lasting five hundred years. He cares not that every man who lives in the world will be forced to suffer for his sake. Such is the blinding power of his one great idea that he cares only to reach the end that he has set his heart upon.’
Gwydion stood up and tugged his robe higher across his shoulders, signalling that there was no more time to talk. ‘It is almost the hour of noon. You must open your mind as you have never opened it before, Willand. You must find the Ludford battlestone, and I must deal with it before it can unleash the attack that Maskull so desires.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ Will said, more frustrated than ever. ‘But what’s to be done about Maskull?’
Gwydion looked sideways, his glance deadly dark. ‘Do not spend any part of your mind on him. Do not be tempted to game with him either. Leave him for me to deal with. In the same way that he has sought to keep me in the dark about his return, so we must keep secret our own knowledge about him. Fear not! He does not know who you are. You are under my protection and he cannot recognize you.’
‘And what about the faceless one who tried to kill me? The one you said was called Chlu, the Dark Child. You said he was Maskull’s agent.’
‘Chlu is Maskull’s instrument, not his agent. The difference is important. Maskull has, by some as-yet-unknown means, discovered Chlu and set him at large in the knowledge that he will try to find you. Chlu, he believes, has reasons of his own to want to do that. He is under no compulsion.’
Will shuddered and stood up. ‘I don’t know why this Chlu should want to murder me. I’ve done him no harm. I don’t even know who he is.’
‘And yet, though you have looked upon his face, you still cannot remember it.’
Will shook his head. It was true. Try as he might, he could not call the Dark Child’s face to mind.
‘You say you have done Chlu no harm, but perhaps the harm he fears from you will be done in the future.’
Will snorted. ‘Well that’s a fine thing, if a man may be attacked because of what he might do one day!’
But Gwydion chose to steer the discussion another way. ‘Whatever the case, there is a strong compulsion at work. But I think that Chlu is not a willing sorcerer’s slave. Indeed, he is quite unsuited to the task that has been set for him. If I know Maskull, he will have bound Chlu upon a magical chain before letting him out into the world. One day soon, I think, he will try to reel him in and begin to wring the truth from him about you. Fortunately, that day has not yet come – or you would not be standing here.’
Will numbly followed the wizard into the innermost ward. But as Gwydion marched away to the Round House, Will lingered, and as soon as he was alone he put his hands to his temples, opening his mind recklessly wide and with no regard for the moon’s phase.
It felt like stepping off the battlements of the keep with only a hope that thin air would support him. A terrible fear flashed through him and began to wrestle with his spirit for possession of his mind. It was a wave of such sudden despair that it took him by surprise. It punished him for his stupidity, and revealed nothing in return. Once again, there was no direction in what he saw, only a perplexing maze, a thousand impressions, glancing, shattering, splintering, lost like drops in a fountain…
‘It’s the stone! It’s the stone! It’s the stone!’ He shouted at the sky, feeling exultation and fear in equal measure. ‘It’s here!’
He closed his mind sharply. Reality coalesced like figures emerging from a fog. Understanding resolved itself into five senses again. He spat thickly, his eyes filled. He felt close to vomiting as he listened to his own yells still echoing off the high walls. Cooks and bakers and serving folk gathered in a knot by the kitchen door, looking at him anxiously, driven to silence by his raving.
‘What are you looking at?’ he demanded.
‘Sir?’ said one of the brewhouse boys, seeing the lordly style in which Will’s hair was now cut and the clothes that had been borrowed for him from Edward. ‘Sir…please…’
When Will looked closely at them he realized their faces were white and ghastly. Then one of them, a young woman, had the courage to say, ‘Sir, we would have our Wortmaster come to us. Do you know where he is?’
‘Gort? He’s gone to – auuugh!’ And the filthy smell hit him, and he drew away for fear he would ret
ch. ‘By the moon and stars…what’s that?’
He saw their fear. They were going against the direct order of their lord in making the complaint, but they had to tell someone of the horror they had found.
‘Sir, it’s the well. It’s happened again, and we can’t bear it no more. Look!’
The head cook lifted a pail and poured blood out of it. It splashed crimson across the cobbles.
‘Bring ropes and lifting tackle!’ he told them. ‘Take me to the well! And fetch the wizard too!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RAW MEAT
There’s sometimes poisoned air down deep wells,’ Gort said. ‘Why, at Castle Beaston up by the city of Caster, there’s the deepest well in all the Realm—’
‘Thank you, Wortmaster,’ Will said, ‘but I’d rather not hear about Castle Beaston just now, if you don’t mind.’ He watched the smith hammering on the rail that ran round the well. A section of it had already been pulled away and part of the winding mechanism taken down.
As Will prepared to climb into the stinking hole, he tested the loop of rope on which he would have to make the journey. It was thick, the same rope that had been unwound from the portcullis drum under Gwydion’s supervision a few days before. Strong spells had been laid on each of the strands in turn, and a loop big enough to hang a man had been expertly whipped into its end. A second rope, almost identical to the first, had also been prepared. Now a dozen of Jackhald’s steadiest men were gathered in the innermost ward. They had been told to act closely on the wizard’s instructions.
Gwydion questioned Gort about the depth of water that usually stood in the well.
‘Weeds and worts! Why, it goes up and down with the seasons. Knee-deep in a dry summer, then up to a fathom. Or more at times. With the weather we’ve had? Oh, no further than Will’s handsome new haircut, I’d say. Enough to drown him in at any rate, hey?’
‘Thank you for that kind thought, Wortmaster,’ Will said.
Jackhald urged the wizard, ‘Let me send one of my lads down. It’s our job when all’s said and done. Last time—’
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