judgment was not necessarily impeccable -was convinced that Blackwood lacked the will to oppose him or betray him. Certainly he was more trustworthy than any of the unprincipled cutthroats who served Comedo as soldiers.
The priest Valarkin would carry the spare ring for the bottle. Comedo congratulated himself on another brilliant choice. As a temple priest, Valarkin was automatically hated, and had failed to win favour with the prince's soldiers since arriving in the castle. If he ever wanted to steal the bottle, he would find it difficult to persuade anyone to conspire with him. Yet Comedo knew that Durnwold would protect his brother Valarkin if any soldier made a move against him. So you could have your cake and eat it – or, in Comedo's idiom, keep your virgin virgin yet shag it senseless.
Comedo, cradling the bottle in his arms, imagined himself emperor of half the continent, with people falling down to worship on their knees at the very mention of his name. Hail him! Mighty warrior! Mighty conqueror! War, obviously, was the life he was made for.
Elsewhere in Castle Vaunting, Blackwood woke beside Mystrel. His eyes were gritty; he had not slept much during the night. He remembered how she had wept; how she had despaired. But he had told her their future should be safe enough.
Comedo's men would march with the mad-jewels to defeat any enemy they met, so there was no danger there. Blackwood was vague as to how the castle would be guarded while they were gone, as he had not been privy to the councils of war which had made the arrangements – but no doubt something would be done. In any case, it was not far to the High Castle. Five days' easy riding should get them there, so it was hard to see how they could be away for long.
Somewhere, not for the first time, the sound of a battle-horn roused the castle.
Blackwood dressed. He buckled on his belt; he was taking his hunting trousse, a bow and a quiver of arrows, and his canvas rain-shelter. Like every other man, he would also be taking a pack; these had back-straps so men could carry them, though horses would take the weight on the journey to the High Castle.
Every man carried in his pack the issue Alish had insisted on. There were rations for ten days (dried meat, salted fish, barley flour, rice) and an issue of siege dust which would support life for twenty days if they ever got hungry enough to start eating it. Alish had also insisted that every man carry spare boots, fishing lines, fish hooks, at least one woollen blanket and at least two leather waterbottles.
Mystrel was still sleeping; Blackwood decided it was best they parted that way. They had been through enough pain already. He left, catfoot, silent. Mystrel distrusted Prince Comedo, thinking he had some terrible fate in store for his some-time huntsman, but Blackwood doubted that Comedo would dare move against him now – not when the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst owed Blackwood his life, and would doubtless be ready to repay that debt if the occasion arose.
He could not guess what future lay ahead for Mystrel and himself – and for the child they were expecting -but he knew the future had to be better than the past.
Outside, Elkor Alish was attempting to dominate the vast expanse of the central courtyard with his voice. He was harrying his underlings, checking armour, weapons, harness, boots, packs. Despite this business, he could not avoid the thought: here he was, again, setting off to war.
War? Collosnon soldiers might die, but the true enemy was a wizard, Heenmor. It was not so much a war as a manhunt. But afterwards… yes, then there would be a proper war. The wizards had promised Prince Comedo that he would be given the mad-jewels once Heenmor had been killed and the death-stone recovered. Each mad-jewel was good for a year of use. With that magic to aid them, Comedo's armies would push south, killing as they went, until they reached the Far South and the Great Dyke itself.
Blood would be shed – some of it, perhaps, innocent. He would allow it for the sake of the ultimate cause: to take revenge for the ancient crimes of wizards. As a member of the Code of Night, Alish was sworn to that cause. And if he could lay hands on the death-stone as well…
Putting hesitation behind him, Elkor Alish faced the future with a resolute will, denying uncertainty with his voice and demeanour.
Durnwold rose early, to see how Alish got things done – but Valarkin slept in to ensure he was properly rested.
Chances for sleep might be scarce if they were attacked on the march.
Valarkin had, the night before, oiled every bit of metal worth oiling, greased every bit of leather, rearranged the items in his pack a dozen times till it sat comfortably on his back – even though he knew a horse would carry it to the High Castle – and before going to sleep had rehearsed every sword stroke Durnwold had taught him in the few days they had been allowed for preparation.
If intellect could conquer, then Valarkin was determined to triumph; if preparation meant success, then he would astonish a whole generation. Whatever happened, he was now Comedo's ring-bearer, guarding a ring giving access to the green bottle, which was now loaded down with provisions of luxury. Providing he survived this campaign, he would be in a position to gain power. That was what he wanted: what he needed.
Miphon woke slowly, reluctant to face the horror planned for their departure. Phyphor had warned him, on pain of death, not to interfere. This morning, his mind was a turmoil. Should he obey? Or try and warn the intended victims? Or try and kill Phyphor? The truth was, Phyphor had the authority of the whole Confederation of Wizards behind him. And Miphon could not kill Phyphor and Garash and Comedo and Alish – he would only get himself butchered.
Reluctantly, hating himself, Miphon decided to comply with Phyphor's instructions.
He checked his gear. In his pack were selected medical items, including knives, hooks, needles, thread, laudanum, honey, bandages and garlic. He felt a certain sense of futility. He could doubtless save a few lives here and there, but what was the good of that in the face of so much slaughter?
In another tower, Garash woke with a little grin on his face. He was looking forward to the fun planned for their departure. And for the chance, if their expedition succeeded, to try to grab the death-stone for himself.
One did not lightly plan to outwit and doublecross a dangerous wizard like Phyphor, but Garash was determined to do it. For power. And for revenge: he still remembered the day of horror after he had been caught by Heenmor's blast-trap, unable to see the light, and thinking himself perhaps blind forever.
Mystrel woke a little later. She thought she felt something – the child in her belly? It distracted her only momentarily. Blackwood was gone! She opened the door. The corridors were silent, empty. She ran, calling his name.
Alish, elsewhere, was handing out the small, red charms on golden chains. The men had not expected to see them again so soon: only a chosen few had been told they were leaving one of the mad-jewels to guard Castle Vaunting. Now some guessed: but all of them, even those with their favourite drabs and doxies living in the castle, put on the red charms without question.
None dared argue with Elkor Alish, the master swordsman, for after the battles against the Collosnon he was no longer known as 'the man who does not shed blood'.
Blackwood's turn came. Blackwood was last. •What's this for?' said Blackwood, holding the little red charm on its golden chain. 'We're not using a mad-jewel today, are we?'
'Put it on.' said Alish.
It was a quiet room, empty but for a man crippled by Heenmor's magic: the man whose hands were chunks of rock, whose left leg had been turned to rock below the knee, whose face was disfigured with stone. His one good eye watched as Phyphor entered, carrying a lead box which bore the null sign of the dead zero: the sign of the nether magic.
At that moment, Questor entered the room. He was the nominal captain of all the soldiers, and the prince had designated him to be left in charge of the castle 'as a mark of my special favour.'
'What are you doing?' said Questor.
Phyphor made no reply, but took out one of the mad-jewels. Misty yellow light swirled and pulsed within it. Questor tried to draw his sword. He lurched, staggered. His face began to slacken. Before sanity left him completely, he screamed, realising what was happening. Then he laughed, flapped his hands like wings, and went reeling away, colliding first with one wall then the other.
