The fifth sorceress, p.42
The Fifth Sorceress, page 42
He finally reached the first of his two destinations. It was a small, narrow nondescript alley that ran into a dead end. Walking to the end of it, he brushed aside some dirt from the floor of the alleyway to reveal a large, flat stone. He dug beneath one edge of the stone with his fingernails, then lifted it to reveal a wooden box. Removing the top of the box, he took out the two items that would help guarantee his safety this night. The first was a dagger, which he concealed in his right boot. The second was a piece of clothing, one that would give him a wide berth through the city, ensuring that no one would bother him.
The yellow robe of a Parthalonian leper.
The robe had come from the dead body of a diseased child. The dwarf had recognized its usefulness right away and had done menial services for the grief-stricken mother in order to pay for it. Now it proved invaluable each time he came here, for it offered him two things that he badly needed in order to move about at will: anonymity and solitude. He left the alley and continued on to where the lepers lived.
He saw a few of them along the way, their yellow robes easily seen in the light of the three red moons that had decided to peek out from behind the slowly parting, vaporous clouds. These poor souls invariably walked hunched over, and he knew that this was because of a mixture of illness and shame. He felt sorry for them, but there was nothing he could do to help them, either. Perhaps one day, he thought.
After passing through several streets he finally reached a two-story building in disrepair. The structure looked as if it had been abandoned for decades, and it had always suited his purposes perfectly. He entered and began to creep silently up the stairs to the second floor, listening for the familiar sounds that would tell him that all was well and as he had left it.
In the room at the very top of the stairs, he was joyously greeted by a younger man, also in a yellow leper’s robe.
‘I almost thought you dead!’ the other man exclaimed, obviously glad to see the hunchbacked dwarf alive and well. ‘I thought for a time that something must have happened, that Succiu might have finally lost her temper with you and done something terrible.’
‘I know, Ian,’ Geldon said tiredly. ‘So much has happened in the last month that I scarcely know where to begin. I shall tell you about it all when time permits.’ He looked at the face of the blond-haired, blue-eyed young man, who once had been healthy and attractive, before the ravages of his disease had taken their awful toll. Ian was no more than thirty years old but it was impossible to guess at his age now, hunched over as he was, and covered with sores and decaying skin. Still, he keeps his spirits up, Geldon thought. A lesson to us all.
When Geldon had first met Ian, the younger man’s leprosy had hardly been noticeable. But now it appeared to the dwarf that his friend with the insatiable curiosity and the keen interest in what transpired outside the city walls had little time to live.
‘How are they?’ Geldon asked, still listening to the soft, gentle sounds coming from the far wall of the shabby, little room.
‘They’re just fine,’ Ian said proudly. ‘The entire lot of them. And they miss you.’
Geldon turned to look. The far wall was covered from floor to ceiling with small cubicles. This had been his life’s work ever since he had met Ian, and they had come upon the idea together.
In each of the cubicles was a pigeon.
Most of them were gray, a few all white or black. They cooed and pranced as best they could in their limited surroundings, and even Geldon had to agree that they seemed to become more excited as he drew nearer to them. Ian oversaw the care and training, and Geldon supplied the food.
Geldon swung the heavy, water-soaked bag down off his aching back and onto the floor.
‘Corn?’ Ian asked hopefully.
‘Yes,’ Geldon said simply. ‘Stolen from the Recluse kitchens. I thought the stuff was going to drown me this time as I came through the grate.’
Without further fanfare the dwarf went to a meager writing table at the far side of the room and pulled up the chair. Taking a candle down from the wall he dripped some of the hot wax onto the desk, and then set the base of the candle into it. He reached into the desk drawer and produced a small scroll of parchment, a quill pen, and an ink bottle. And then he nervously began to write.
The hunchbacked dwarf sat there for a long time, trying his best to convey what was most important, completely unsure of his spelling yet hoping that his reader would understand. When he finally finished, he rolled the parchment up into a very small scroll, sealed it with wax, and tied an oilskin around it to keep out the rain.
He looked over at Ian. ‘Bring me one of the larger males,’ he said.
Ian looked across the cages of birds and finally found the one he wanted – the gray male whose sense of direction was never wrong. He removed the bird carefully from the cage and handed it to Geldon.
‘I agree,’ the dwarf said, looking the bird over. Geldon carefully tied the scroll around the bird’s leg and handed it back to Ian. He then reached up on a shelf and brought forth a small, wooden, cylindrical object on a string, which he tied carefully around the bird’s breast. It was a whistle. It would make a noise as the pigeon flew through the air, keeping the hawks away.
With a nod to Ian, Geldon took the bird out another door and onto a small balcony. The dwarf looked to the stars, thinking about the weather, the distance, and the danger. Finally, with Ian watching, he gently kissed the soft gray bird on the top of its head, and released it into the dark sky. It flew away immediately, then returned and made a large circle around the roof of the building as if saying good-bye before it turned away to its destination. It was headed to Eutracia. To Shadowood.
And finally to the wizard named Faegan.
Chapter Fifteen
Stop straining your eyes. The harder you look, the less you will see.’
Tristan sat on Pilgrim in the hot afternoon sun, the long, golden stalks of wheat waving gently in the breeze all around him. For two hours he had been futilely attempting to put into action what the old wizard was trying to tell him. But the more the prince looked, somehow the less he saw. It was maddening, like trying to learn something by not learning it at all. He had been staring at the spot that Wigg had told him to, but still he could not see the canyon and bridge that the old one said was right in front of them. All he could see was what he first saw when they had entered the field of wheat – namely, a pine forest that began at the far end and seemed to run on into the hills forever, presumably ending at the coastline of the Sea of Whispers. Frankly, if anyone but Wigg had been telling him this, Tristan would have thought him mad.
Since the incident by the river, they had been traveling without the aid of roads, living off the land, journeying ever northeast. They had spoken little of Natasha, and even less of the one Tristan had known as Lillith. What was there to say? But despite the fact that the mistress of the Coven and daughter of Faegan was dead, the prince still could not get the other woman, the beautiful young woman he had supposedly rescued from the tavern, out of his mind. Perhaps that was part of the problem, he thought.
Wigg had sensed this, also. Therefore, during the last week or so the old wizard had decided to spend every waking moment trying to prepare the prince to see the canyon and bridge. He had imparted into Tristan as much training in this particular technique as he could, given the very short time frame in which they had to work. It typically took months for one of endowed blood to learn to see the entrance to Shadowood. Despite that, Wigg had hoped that the high quality of Tristan’s blood would shorten the process. But there was really no way to know – not until they were actually faced with it.
Wigg could see both the canyon and the bridge clearly, and was pleased to find that they were just as he remembered them. But until Tristan learned to see them, the prince would not be admitted into Shadowood.
Wigg got down off his horse, walked over to where Tristan and Pilgrim were standing, and took the reins from the prince, hoping that one less distraction would help him concentrate. ‘What do you see?’ the old one asked gently.
Tristan looked at the pine woods again, trying to let go of the image with his eyes just as the wizard had been telling him, and instead trying see what his blood knew was there. Heed your blood, not your eyes, Wigg had kept telling him. Don’t fight to see the image, but let it simply come to you, instead. Look for it with your heart. And listen to your blood.
Tristan had seen the pines shimmer once or twice, and he knew that it wasn’t the heat that made them appear that way. It was his gift. But for the last hour nothing else had happened, and he was beginning to tire.
He must believe, Wigg thought. His will is stronger than any of the others I have trained, and he needs proof.
Handing the reins back to the prince, the wizard began to walk away. Tristan watched as the old one strode oddly about the wheat field, apparently looking for something. Wigg finally bent over and picked up a rather large rock from the ground. Seemingly satisfied, he carried it back and placed it on the ground at Pilgrim’s feet. He looked up at the prince.
‘I want you to stop trying to see the canyon, and watch this instead,’ the old one said without any further explanation. He pointed to the rock, and it slowly began to revolve and lift itself off the ground, ever higher in the air, until it was about the same height as the prince’s head. Wigg then pointed to the rock, and it slowly began to pass through the air, toward the place where the pine forest started to run down onto the field. He dropped his arm, and the rock sat still in midair, motionless except for the continuous revolutions it made. The old one then clapped his hands, and the rock fell to the earth. Except it didn’t land on the ground, as Tristan would have expected.
The earth swallowed it up, and it was gone. It had fallen into the canyon – the one Tristan couldn’t see but now knew for a certainty was there.
‘Close your eyes,’ Wigg said calmly.
Tristan did as the old one ordered. No longer able to see the field or the woods, he focused instead on the warmth of the sun, the breeze that came and went across his face, and the rustling sounds of the wheat swaying gently back and forth in the wind.
‘Open your eyes,’ he finally heard the old one say.
The prince opened his eyes to a magnificent view.
The pine forest was gone. In its place lay a canyon at least several hundred feet across; it stretched to either side as far as his eyes could see. The jagged and sheer walls descended straight down into a pitch-black nothingness that appeared to have no bottom. A bridge made of wooden floorboards and rope rails spanned the great, yawning gash in the earth. It swung gently back and forth in the breeze, making a creaking noise that Tristan could now hear but had been unable to detect before. And he could feel the presence of the endowed blood in his veins with new vigor, almost as if for the first time.
But it was the forest on the other side of the canyon that mesmerized him so. Huge, gnarled tree trunks, their roots exposed and seemingly grasping for ever more soil, lined the far side of the canyon, their branches so large that they almost completely blocked out the sun. The forest floor was covered with the thickest moss he had ever seen, and here again he saw the same gigantic trillium blossoms he had seen that day in the forest near the Caves of the Paragon. In fact, so much of the scene was reminiscent of the area that surrounded the Caves that he had to force himself to believe he was not back in that place he had discovered only a few months ago. A few lifetimes ago, it seemed now. Somehow, it was like going home.
He was looking at the place called Shadowood, the creation of the Directorate of Wizards as a sanctuary for those of endowed blood – and still, after all these years, the refuge of Faegan, the one Wigg referred to as ‘the rogue.’
It was then that Tristan first saw the gnome. He had seemingly appeared from nowhere, and was standing rather defiantly next to the bridge where it met the other side of the canyon.
He was only about as high as the prince’s waist, perhaps even somewhat shorter, but otherwise he seemed to be mostly human. He had red hair shot through with gray, and a scruffy, identically colored beard covered his face. The dark, beady eyes sat above a rather large, turned-up nose. He wore blue bibs over a bright red shirt, scruffy knee boots with upturned ends, and a strange, lopsided black cap that dangled down to one side.
From seemingly nowhere the gnome produced a chair and an oversized jug of ale. He sat in the chair and took a long draught of the ale, and then proceeded to light the corncob pipe that Tristan now noticed sticking out from between his teeth. The gnome still had not spoken to them and seemed to be settling in for some time, as if he had all the time in the world and didn’t really care whether the two of them could really see him or not.
Tristan couldn’t believe he was finally looking at one of these secretive, hermitlike little people. He could feel his endowed blood tingling with what he could only describe as a great sense of distrust.
It was Wigg who spoke first.
‘I am of endowed blood, and can see the canyon and you quite clearly. I demand the right to cross,’ the old one called.
The gnome took another leisurely swig of ale before responding. Finally, he replied. ‘I saw your trick with the rock, and I wasn’t that impressed,’ he shouted across the chasm. ‘I am Shannon the Small, and I am the keeper of the bridge. What is your business here?’ He took a long draw on the pipe, slowly sending the smoke out into the air from his nostrils.
‘We have come to see Faegan,’ Wigg said simply.
At the mention of the wizard’s name the little gnome sat up straighter in his chair and narrowed his eyes. ‘Master Faegan to you,’ he called back rather sarcastically. ‘The master sees no one. But when I return to his presence, who shall I say tried unsuccessfully to cross the canyon this day?’
‘I am Wigg, Lead Wizard of the Directorate of Wizards, and this is Tristan of the House of Galland, prince of Eutracia,’ Wigg said. ‘I strongly suggest you let us cross.’
Upon hearing the names, the gnome narrowed his eyes even farther, pursed his lips, and then tapped the embers of the pipe out against the heel of his boot. Standing from his chair, he walked to the edge of the canyon, presumably to get a better look at them. He stared back and forth between the wizard and the prince for a while before answering.
‘I am to see that no one crosses. Not since the unpleasantness in Tammerland. Go away and leave us alone.’
‘Why can’t we simply cross the bridge anyway, and go on to Shadowood?’ Tristan asked Wigg. ‘I haven’t come this far just to be told by such a small man that this is where it all ends for us.’ His thoughts went to Natasha, and what she had said to him about his sister: You’ll never be seeing her again …She is one of us now …She will receive the best of care. The dead sorceress’s words played out often in his mind, sometimes becoming almost sickeningly confused with the kinder, more loving words that had come from the one named Lillith. But there had been no Lillith, only Natasha, he reminded himself. And that knowledge only made his blood course harder with the need to find his sister. He would allow no one to deny him in his attempt to bring her back – especially one so small as this arrogant gnome.
‘You don’t understand,’ Wigg said quietly. ‘Even if we cross the bridge and overpower him we will still need his permission, or Faegan will sense an unauthorized crossing. He would then most certainly go into hiding, especially considering everything that has transpired in the last few days. And without Faegan we would be right back where we started, only worse. There are a thousand places for him to hide in Shadowood alone. I’m sorry, Tristan, but we must have the permission of the gnome to cross. We would enter Shadowood, but we would lose track of Faegan forever.’
Tristan couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t conceive of the Lead Wizard of the Directorate needing permission from an unendowed gnome in order to continue their journey. He looked back across the canyon to where Shannon the Small was still sitting, watching their obvious frustration with self-satisfied amusement.
‘How do you know all of this?’ Tristan asked.
‘As I told you,’ the old one said, looking back at the gnome, ‘I was involved in the creation of the canyon.’ He pursed his lips, then ran a hand down his long, gnarled face.
Tristan had suddenly had enough. He would get the gnome’s permission one way or another. But no sooner had he taken his first step forward when he felt Wigg’s hand on his elbow, holding him back. The wizard put his lips close to the prince’s ear. ‘If you are going to pet a stray dog with your left hand, make sure you have a rock in your right,’ he whispered. Tristan smiled and nodded. ‘Although they have no gifted powers, you may find him to be very strong and quick, especially when angry,’ the old one added. ‘Remember, we still need his official permission to cross.’
Without looking at the wizard, the prince reached over his left shoulder and pulled the dreggan free of its scabbard. It rang loud and clear out over the deep canyon, the sound seeming never to want to fade away. The idea of using a weapon like this against one so small went against his better nature, but if it had to be, it had to be. Nothing was going to keep him from his sister. He began to cross the bridge.
Unexpectedly, the gnome darted across the bridge toward the prince as fast as his little legs would carry him. Tristan hesitated to raise the dreggan, not really wanting to use it, and that was his mistake. With a great leap, Shannon the Small closed the gap between them in an instant and wrapped his arms and legs around one of the prince’s legs, holding on for dear life. The bridge swayed wildly in the air. Tristan’s laugh died in his throat when he felt an intense, searing pain in his thigh. He looked down in horror to see that the gnome had sunk his teeth into his leg and wasn’t about to let go. Shannon the Small was actually growling and shaking his head back and forth as he bit into the prince, just like a mad dog would. The pain was excruciating. Blood began to trail from the wound, dripping down toward Tristan’s knee in winding -rivulets of red.
