set into the white walls to make abstract designs. The whole five-storey church was sunk into a wide hole in the ground.
“It used to be on a little hill,” said Joachim, enjoying our surprise. “The hill was made mostly of small stones, and the stones became popular among pilgrims, as souvenirs of their visit-and even, for those of simple faith, holy relics in their own right. Soon the hill disappeared, leaving the original church standing well above the new ground level. So the priests here decided to add a new church, under the old one.” He swung down from his horse and picked up a loose stone himself. “The process was repeated three more times.”
We visited all five levels, and Joachim talked to the priests there. I tried to contemplate how many pilgrims it must have taken to wear away a hole as big as the one in which the church now sat. “There’s a major pilgrimage here every Midsummer,” said Joachim, consulting his book, “and two other smaller religious festivals. The hills are covered with the tents of the pious at Midsummer as far as two miles away.”
I had also not really appreciated before how relatively scarce wizards were in the western kingdoms compared to priests. The latter would be found in every village, in isolated churches like this one, and in every-or nearly every-aristocratic court, whereas even a large kingdom might have only a handful of wizards. The king too took a stone when we left.
Toward the end of our third day of riding east, we saw an enormous castle rising before us at the very base of the mountains. Dozens of towers and turrets rose above high walls that encircled not just the castle itself but all the hilltops around it. Those walls, pierced with arrowslits and guarded by towers at every corner, must have been at least a mile long. I had once assumed the royal castle of Yurt was a good example of an impregnable castle built for war, but this journey was showing me I was mistaken.
We zigzagged up a steep approach beneath those walls, but the gates before us stood wide and welcoming. “Tell your king that King Haimeric of Yurt is here to visit him,” the king told the armed guards man who met us. Although a second guardsman immediately stepped up to take his place as the first went off with the message, he showed no sign of attacking us, and instead gave us an interested look.
King Warin, word came back almost immediately, would be happy to receive us. We passed through the wall, up another zigzag stretch so steep we had to lead the horses, then across a bridge over a deep and narrow ditch and through another set of gates into the castle itself. We were then led through the courtyard, where servants took the horses, and into the great hall.
The hall was about the same size as the great hall in Yurt, but there the comparison stopped. The outer castle walls may have been dark granite, but the interior walls of this room were green marble, set with semi- precious stones that flashed in the light of the magic lamps. Even the flooring was marble. It seemed very cold, I told myself in loyalty to Yurt.
King Warin was seated on his throne on the far side, surrounded by liveried attendants. They backed away, bowing, as we approached, but six liveried knights remained close to the throne. Talking to the king was a man dressed in black and silver who I took to be the royal chancellor. The king lifted his grizzled head as we came up. He had an enormous ring on his forefinger, and the cloak thrown across his shoulder was made of wolfskin.
I expected him to frown at us in august majesty, but instead he rose to meet us with a smile. The knights stepped forward with him. “Haimeric! It’s been years. I should have known the rumors about a blue rose would bring you out of that little kingdom of yours. And you,” with a pleased look at Ascelin, “I know as well. You helped me when those undead creatures invaded my kingdom, many years ago. Prince Ascelin, that’s it.”
I glanced around surreptitiously as we were introduced, wondering where his wizard might be. But when I asked, King Warin told me what I should have expected. “We don’t have a wizard right now, I’m afraid.”
“What happened to Elerius?”
“He left nearly a year ago,” King Warin said regretfully. “Another kingdom, closer to the City, needed a new Royal Wizard, and the teachers of your school recommended him. We were terribly sorry to lose him, but I don’t think my kingdom held many challenges for him any more. You knew him, I gather?”
“I knew him when we were in school together,” I said, thinking that Yurt still seemed to have plenty of challenges for me.
“He really was extremely good,” Warin continued reminiscently. “I think that’s why we haven’t been satisfied with any of the other young wizards the school has tried sending out. Did you know, Haimeric, he installed our telephone system within three days of taking up his post? And then,” with a laugh, “he apologized for taking so long, saying that if he had taken more courses in the technical division it would have taken only two!”
It had taken me six months, not three days, to get the telephone system working in Yurt, and then we had ended up with telephones unlike anyone else’s. Fortunately King Haimeric did not mention this.
“Maybe you can help us, Wizard,” added Warin thoughtfully.
For a second I felt again the cold majesty I thought I had sensed when we first came in, but which his friendly manner had belied. As a wizard I was highly sensitive to mood and partially-concealed thoughts, but as me I was also highly sensitive to my own imagination.
“Just after Elerius left, a group of pilgrims stopped here. They had a wizard with them. He left something he said was a ‘special message’ for another wizard. So far, none of the new wizards whom the school has tried sending us has been able to read it-part of the reason we decided not to keep any of them. Maybe you can; I’m sure Haimeric wouldn’t keep an incompetent wizard!”
This was clearly meant to be a joke, but I took it seriously. “I’ll have a look,” I said as casually as I could.
King Warin lifted one hand in a lazy gesture, and his dour chancellor, who had been hovering just at the edge of our circle, hurried away. I was immediately convinced that the group of pilgrims had been Sir Hugo’s party, and that the wizard who had left the magic message was Evrard.
II
The chancellor returned with a box so black it seemed to absorb the light from the magic lamps. “I’ll need a little privacy for my spells,” I said with what I hoped was calm dignity. If it actually was a message from Evrard, I wanted to read it before anyone else. And if it took a while to figure out the spells, no matter what wizard had left it, I didn’t want an attentive audience.
The chancellor led me to a small parlor opening off the great hall. I probed carefully, trying to find what kind of spell permeated this box. No way to open it, not even a seam, was visible.
I had, over the years, grown to distrust my sudden convictions, which tended to be wrong most of the time. Evrard, I told myself, still wasn’t a good enough wizard to have created a message that several highly-qualified graduates from the school couldn’t read. Of course, the alternative was that some truly incompetent wizard had tried to leave a message and had only made something unreadable.
Abruptly I caught a glimpse of a spell I understood. It was a very simple spell, so simple, in fact, that I had almost overlooked it while probing for something more complicated. I said a handful of words in the Hidden Language, and a seam suddenly appeared all around the box. The lid slowly opened. Inside was a parchment scroll, written on both sides in incomprehensible symbols and combinations of letters. But when I said a few more words they scurried across the page and shaped themselves into a clear message.
It was from Evrard after all.
“Beware, any wizard who reads this,” it began.
I glanced quickly toward the great hall. Our party was still standing there, talking to King Warin and his chancellor.
“You are in danger of your life.” Could this be one of Evrard’s jokes? “King Warin, I think, is a sorcerer. Last night I saw unmistakable evidence that he is dabbling in the black arts.”
I looked toward the hall again and met King Warin’s eyes across a space of twenty yards. They were almost unbearably cold and seemed to bore straight through to my bones.
I tore my eyes back to the message. “We have also just heard some very strange rumors coming out of the East. King Warin, I think, knows more about them than he wishes to say. This is not a good place for a young wizard.”
That was it, except for Evrard’s signature. I said a few quick words in the Hidden Language, and the letters of
