the lid. And heard a dragon roar behind him, screamed as its flame engulfed him- And dropped the lid shut on the box.
No pain, no flame, no dragon.
Outside, the enemy were wavering. Then came a shout: 'Ahyak Rovac!'
Yes, it was the voice of Elkor Alish: challenge echoing from tower to tower as it had when the tide of battle turned in their favour at Vaglazeen. And the voice of Our Lord Despair completed the panic amongst the enemy, and they ran.
And Hearst whispered to himself, again: 'I held the breach at Enelorf.'
'Did it disturb you much?' said Hearst. 'What? When you opened the box?' 'What else?' 'No,' said Phyphor.
But, in truth, each time Hearst had opened the lead box, Phyphor had seen before his very eyes the double spikes of the Neversh, and had fallen screaming to the ground.
'I'm so glad you weren't upset,' said Hearst.
From the way he said it, Phyphor knew the warrior had been told exactly what had happened. Phyphor had screamed. And Garash had roared until his veins stood out.
'Now,' said Phyphor. 'What have you got there? Ah, I see. You managed to find the bottle as well.'
'Yes. But I can't find out what it does.'
'Of course you can't. If you could, you wouldn't hand it over.'
Phyphor caressed the small, green-glazed bottle, which was decorated with two metal bands. He said a Word. The bands loosened, tinkled to the floor, then shrank to finger-sized rings.
'What are those for?' asked Hearst.
'Never you mind,' said Phyphor.
He shook the lead boxes. One rattled: it held the dozens of small red charms on thin chains. Opening it, he ran his fingers through them with an expression close to lust. This was well worth killing for.
'What are the charms for?' said Hearst.
'Can't you guess?'
'I'm a warrior, not a…'
Pox doctor was the term he had in mind. 'Not a wizard,' said Phyphor, finishing his sentence for him.
'Well then,' said Hearst. 'The pair of yellow jewels in the other box, the ones that made everyone go strange when I lifted the lid – what do they do?'
'Can't you guess? They make men insane.'
'Insane?'
'They steal men's wits,' said Phyphor. 'The red charms on the golden chains give protection against the mad- jewels. Now we can kill off the enemy and save our lives, so let's be glad that Blackwood saved yours.'
'Blackwood?'
'Your woodsman friend. We heard you running through water. We knew you'd never reach safety on your own. So when the lopsloss went after you… Blackwood gave the executioner a push.'
CHAPTER TWENTY
Name: Mystrel (wife to Blackwood).
Birthplace: Little Gidding (a hamlet later claimed for ashes by the dragon Zenphos).
Occupation: home executive.
Description: a face which, to Blackwood, is more familiar than his own (since he has no mirror); a voice which he hears in his dreams. Flesh in her flesh lives a life which is not yet entirely its own.
The next morning, the charms were shared out. As there weren't enough to go round, Miphon brewed a sleeping potion to be drunk by all the charmless before the mad-jewels were used against the enemy. Belatedly, Blackwood, who had drunk his share, realised his wife Mystrel had avoided taking the sleeping potion. He took her to Miphon, who still had some left in a cauldron simmering over a low fire. From the cauldron, purple flames rose wraith by wraith.
'I won't drink that,' said Mystrel.
'It only brings sleep,' said Miphon.'It's harmless.'
'For you, maybe. For me, perhaps. But I am with child.'
'This won't harm the unborn,' said Miphon. 'What we do to our bodies doesn't touch them.'
'Really? And when did you last bear a child?'
The challenge was unexpected; Miphon was not used to having his authority questioned by work-faded peasant women.
'I've researched these things,' he said, carefully.
'Yes. You've read about them in your dusty books. And I've felt the flesh kick in my belly. There's a difference. I've lost children before -1 won't risk this one.'
Miphon was amazed at her vehemence.
'My mother taught me of the power that plants draw from the earth,' said Mystrel. 'She taught me sleeping and dreams, the end of pain and the death of fever. She taught.me how to tell when a woman is with child ~ and to be very, very careful.'
'If you're so wise.' said Miphon, 'Why did you lose your other children?'
'Winter was the wolf that took them,' said Mystrel. 'Each time, the snow – we were starving!'
Miphon was shocked by her bitterness. Suddenly he had a vision of what had happened. Pale flesh on dark earth. Flesh formed perfectly, but never breathing. Last words for the dead. A burial. A small mound of earth. Silence under forest boughs. A woman on her knees in the thick wet rot of fallen leaves: weeping. Now he knew her loss. And was ashamed at how he had accused her, purely for the sake of rhetorical victory. Now what was he to do? 'Here,' said Miphon. placing his charm round her neck.
If he hadn't been arrogant enough to try to force her to accept the benefits of his medicine, he would have thought of that simple solution immediately. He had always prided himself on the fact that he was humble enough to put himself at the service of the common people. Now, he realised that he had never cured himself of the main failing of wizards: to treat knowledge as an instrument of force and an extension of power.
Oh well, he had plenty of time to learn.
After all, he had not yet reached his first century.
He dipped a ladle in his wizard brew, and drank.
Blackwood and Mystrel retired to their quarters. Soon Blackwood was asleep. For a while, Mystrel sat by the bed, carding wool. The castle was strangely quiet; usually it echoed with boots, doors slamming, distant shouts, half-heard snatches of song, and, sometimes, hammering from the makeshift forge where Lorford's blacksmith had set up shop to work on weapons and armour.
Suddenly, a horn sounded, brash and brazen. A half-remembered phrase stirred in Mystrel's memory: 'the horn of the victor which echoes the sun.' Yes. She knew the horn was a signal for butchery. The men of the castle were going to slaughter their enemies on the battlements.
The fodden woke from sleep at Mystrel's feet. As it was not human, it could not be affected by the mad- jewels.
'Shlunt?' slurred the fodden.
'No hunt,' said Mystrel. 'Just men, at their games as usual.'
'Oh,' said the fodden, still half-asleep, and sank back into its dreams.
It was still suffering from injuries received when some of Comedo's men had used it for a game of kick the cat. Mystrel was tending it because that was her nature: to care for weak, broken things that could not help
