'If the villagers want to kill you because they're worried you're going to keep on murdering people, then why don't you just give them something else to worry about? Surely you can think of something dire enough to occupy their time-at least for a few days, until the tower is done. Then who cares what the peasants think. You can squash them,all like bugs!' This last idea was apparently too much for the gnome, sending him into a histrionic fit of laughter. He fell backward on the chaise, kicking and rolling as his purple little body was racked with uncontrollable mirth. 'Bugs!' he squealed gleefully once more.
Caidin ignored him. A sharp light brought the old flicker of life to his green eyes. He sat up straight in the chair. The familiar confidence returned. 'Of course,' he said in amazement. 'It's perfect. Yet so simple it would take an idiot to see it. And no one is more idiotic that yourself, Pock.'
'Why thank you, Your Grace!' the gnome snorted between giggles. 'You're too kind!'
Caidin had already stalked from the chamber to begin giving the orders.
Mika stared out the grimy window of the inn's back room into the gray morning light. The question that had tormented her all night, and the three nights before that, still festered in her mind. How could she, a woman of healing, have known such exquisite pleasure in the arms of a villainous murderer? She clutched the gold locket that once more hung around her neck.
'Forgive me, my loves,' she whispered. 'I am so very sorry. Forgive me.'
That was the worst of it. Were they here, Geordin and Lia would forgive her. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. They would hold her in their arms and take her tears upon their own cheeks, and truly, absolutely forgive her.
'I do not deserve forgiveness, my loves,' she whispered despairingly. Sighing, she turned away from the window.
She had not heard them come in.
Mika clamped a hand to her mouth, stifling a cry. Three women stood in the open doorway. That they were Vistani she knew from their garb-full white shirts, embroidered vests, skirts of brilliant, swirling colors. Over it all they wore so much jewelry that the sheer weight of it ought to have borne them to the ground. They glittered with copper bracelets, glass earrings, and beaded necklaces.
Despite their similar attire, the three women were markedly different from one another. One was barely more than a child, cheeks pink and bosom full with the first bloom of womanhood. A ring set with a large green stone sparkled on her hand. The second Vistana was of middle years, radiant in her maturity, the fine lines about her eyes and mouth accentuating her beauty. She, too, wore a ring with a shining stone. The third gypsy was ancient in aspect, a crone stooped over a twisted walking staff. About her wrinkled visage and wispy white hair there existed a faded, fragile beauty. Her ring bore a stone so black it seemed to absorb all light that strayed near its polished facets. Though the three women differed greatly in age and appearance, the same wise light' shone in each of their eyes.
Forcibly, Mika regained her composure. She had heard many mysterious stories about the Vistani- how they traveled constantly in their gilded, brightly painted wagons, considering all the land their home; how they read hints of the future in the patterns of cards and the flight of birds; how they were said to be able to look at a man's palm and know his soul completely. Still, somehow she knew that the three gypsies meant her no harm.
She cleared her throat. 'Can I… can I help you? Is one of you hurt?'
To Mika's surprise, it was the youngest of the three gypsies who stepped forward to answer. 'No, Doctor. It is your own hurt that brought us here. It is we who would help you.'
Mika found herself sinking down into a chair. 'I see.' These were the only words she could manage. What did these Vistani want with her?
The women entered the chamber, accompanied by the faint music of their clinking jewelry. Their radiance seemed to brighten the dingy room.
The middle-aged Vistana spoke next. 'May we ask you something, Doctor?'
Mika nodded dumbly.
'We have learned that there is a hunchback who lives in the bell tower of Nartok Keep. You are familiar with him, are you not?'
Surprise flickered across Mika's face. 'Yes, that's so. His name is Wort. How… how do you know of him?'
A cackle escaped from the lips of the eldest Vistana. 'How do you know that the sun shall rise each morning, my child? How do you know that, after winter, spring will come again?'
Mika shook her head in puzzlement. 'I suppose I just know.'
The ancient gypsy nodded gravely, as if Mika had just uttered some profound truth.
'We believe your friend may be in terrible danger, Doctor,' the youngest of the three spoke.
Mika thought of her last encounter with Wort and found that she was shaking. Her heart still held many feelings for the hunchback-sorrow, pity, even a degree of love. Now to that list had been added another-fear. For a moment, she remembered the way Wort had twisted the neck of the poor gray pigeon.
'He… he isn't my friend any longer,' she replied at last.
The pretty Vistana arched a single eyebrow in curiosity. 'Then he is in even greater danger,' she replied solemnly.
'Tell us, Doctor,' the middle-aged gypsy asked, 'do you believe in evil?'
'I… I'm not…' Mika swallowed hard. She thought of all she had witnessed, long ago in II Aluk, and now these last days. Finally she forced herself to say the word. 'Yes.'
The youngest of the three nodded. 'You are right to believe so, Doctor. You see, long before there was light, there was darkness. Even now, night dwells in brooding jealousy of day, begrudging the hours when light touches the land darkness once possessed so completely. Darkness is very ancient, and very powerful, and it schemes ever for the time when it will rule the world once more.'
'But what does this have to do with me?' Mika asked hoarsely. The Vistana's words terrified her.
'Nothing,' the gypsy crone answered. 'Or everything.'
A slightly manic smile touched Mika's lips. 'Well, that about covers all the possibilities.'
'It does indeed,' the young Vistana replied. She grew solemn once more. 'There remain in this land many relics of the ancient time when darkness ruled the world, objects of terrible evil. We are fortunate, for most are lost, or at least hidden away so deeply they will never be found. Yet a perilous few are not so well concealed. From time to time, such a relic is unearthed, and then only woe can follow.'
Mika shivered. 'You believe Wort has one of these… these relics?'
The Vistani nodded. For a time they spoke while Mika listened. She learned the names of the three women- Karin was youngest and most forthright, Riandra motherly and questioning, and Varith the wizened crone who wrapped herself in mystery.
'Ages ago, in another land, there was an arrogant and foolish king,' Karin began the horrible tale. 'In his kingdom lived a great smith, and one day the king demanded that the smith forge for him a bell of bronze and silver. The smith told the king that these two metals would not mix, and that such a bell would crack the first time it was rung. Because of his pride, the king would not recant his request, ill-considered though it was. He commanded that the smith forge such a bell, and if it cracked when it was rung, the smith's eldest child would be killed. In anger and fear, the smith set to his impossible task. At first he despaired, but then-and how we will never know- dark knowledge came to him. He discovered a way to make molten bronze and silver bind.
'When at last he unveiled the'bell, the king marveled at its beauty. The king commanded the smith to ring the instrument, and this was done. The bell's voice was pure and rich and like nothing those who looked on had ever heard. What was more, it did not crack.
'But the king's joy at this triumph was marred. As the bell rang out, the smith gleefully revealed how he had accomplished this impossible task. He had learned that there was one substance, and one alone, that would cause silver and bronze to bind, and that was human blood. 'Whose blood was spilled to forge this abomination?' the king asked in dread. The smith's laughter rang out as loud as the bell. 'That of your three sons,' he replied. 'It seemed fitting, since you would have gladly slain my child had I failed.'
'Before the king could call for the smith's death, the tolling of the bell faded, and suddenly the air darkened as three apparitions appeared. They were the spirits of the king's dead sons. The smith fell to his knees, begging for mercy, but as the others gazed on, the spirits tore his body apart. Then they vanished into the air once more. Forever after, it was the curse of the bell that, each time it was rung, someone was forced to pay for its music with
