LITMIR.BIZ

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my associates bespeak me concerning their work on the Barren Lands mineral.’ He closed his eyes, then almost immediately reopened them. ‘Ahroo!’ he roared. The force of his breath blew away several of the map’s miniature ships.

      ‘What?’ the other three Eminences demanded.

      ‘The lapidaries have cloven the chunk of raw moonstone successfully, making not just one flawless blank, but two.’

      ‘Congratulations, Kalawnn!’ said the First Judge. ‘A notable feat!

      The Master Shaman continued. ‘The first piece of raw stone is much smaller, a mere wafer. We must decide which sigil it is best suited for – but I incline toward a Subtle Gateway, even though that particular Great Stone is quite difficult to carve.’

      The Conservator inclined his head in approbation. ‘If we possessed one of those, we would have easy access to the Demon Seat Moon Crag and all the raw mineral we could possibly use!’

      ‘How long will it take your lapidaries to make the two sigils, Kalawnn?’ the First Judge asked.

      ‘The Destroyer, twelve or thirteen days. The Gateway, a few days less – if the supremely delicate sigil doesn’t shatter during manufacture, as is all too likely. Two teams of carvers will be working separately. The most experienced will be assigned to the Gateway project.’

      ‘We must have a contingency plan,’ the Supreme Warrior said, ‘in case of failure. Two new sigils won’t reconquer the whole island. We need more – and we need them soon. Perhaps the Lights can advise us on this matter, as well as answering the Wise One’s inquiries about the humans who climbed the mountain and the nature of the magical boon granted to them by the Likeminded.’

      Kalawnn said, ‘I will attempt to bespeak them now.’ His eyes closed.

      The other three Eminences waited: Ugusawnn reining in his impatience, the First Judge seeming to be interested only in a fresh snack, and the venerable Conservator doing his best not to nod off.

      At last the Master Shaman reopened his eyes. ‘I am told that three sons of High King Conrig ascended Demon Seat together. They were not sent by the Source and knew little of the second Moon Crag’s potential, save that it might grant a miracle to a worthy petitioner. They know nothing at all about sigil-making.’

      ‘Ahroo!’ The Supreme Warrior vented a sigh of relief.

      ‘What favor was granted?’ the Judge asked, picking a bit of prawn shell from his back teeth.

      Kalawnn cocked his head-crest in bemusement. ‘The Prince Heritor of Cathra asked that he be spared from mating with a princess of Didion, since he did not love her.’

      ‘What?’ cried the others.

      Kalawnn shrugged. ‘It’s hardly believable, yet this royal tadpole was silly enough to beg such a mundane boon – and the Defeated Ones complied in the only manner possible. They burnt off his sword arm. A prince lacking that appendage is deemed unworthy to inherit the throne of either Cathra or Didion.’

      The other Eminences fell about laughing at the eccentricities of humankind until Kalawnn brought them up short. ‘I asked the Light who responded to me one other question. The most important of all, I think: What is the best possible way for Salka to obtain raw moonstone from the Demon Seat Crag?’

      ‘The answer?’ the Conservator demanded.

      Kalawnn lifted both tentacles in a helpless gesture. ‘Colleagues, the Light spoke only two words: Ask Beynor.’

      ‘Are you absolutely sure you remember how to say the spell, Jegg?’ the sorcerer asked.

      ‘Oh, yes, master!’ The servant lad’s coarse features were ruddy with excitement. A north wind had risen, carrying the first fat drops of rain from the darkening sky. The two of them stood on a stony slope a dozen ells below the cave where Gorvik had been ordered to wait.

      ‘Let’s go over it one final time. I’ll ask the questions the Great Light will put to you in the Salka language, and you answer in a loud, gruff voice.’

      Jegg did as he was told. His accent was still a little off, but it would do.

      ‘Very good.’ The sorcerer opened his belt-pouch. He placed one moonstone on the ground and offered the other one to the boy. ‘Now hold out your hand. It’s time to put on the power-giving sigil.’

      ‘I can’t believe it’ll really happen,’ Jegg gushed, staring at the simple ring of carved mineral that had been placed on his right index finger. Its name was Weathermaker. ‘I’ll be a magicker, too – better’n Gor, almost as great as you! The ring’ll let me command rain and snow and sunshine – even whirlwinds and lightning!’

      ‘It will all come true if you perform the ritual properly and are steadfast in enduring the necessary pain.’

      ‘Oh, master, I will!’ The servant boy was twelve years old. He believed everything that Beynor of Moss had told him.

      ‘Now we’re ready. I’ll go up to the cave and wait there with Gorvik. You count to one hundred, then begin. Kneel down and press the ring to the moonstone disk lying there. Remember – no matter what happens, you must keep the two stones together.’

      The sorcerer hurried to the cleft in the rockface, a disused bear’s den. The Didionite hedge-wizard Gorvik Kitstow lurked just inside the entrance, eyeing him in shifty silence.

      Beynor thought, Yes, you know what I’m doing, and why! But it doesn’t matter anymore –

      The abrupt blaze of emerald flame and the thunderous concussion made both men flinch.

      ‘Frizzle me fewmets!’ Gorvik cried. He took a few unsteady steps out of the cave, but the entire area was swathed in malodorous smoke and nothing could be seen clearly. The rustic magicker muttered more obscenities under his breath.

      Beynor ignored him until the cleansing wind had done its work. Then he returned to the scene of the experiment with Gorvik trailing after him. All that now remained of the unfortunate Jegg was a heap of foul-smelling ash lying on the hillside amidst scorched remnants of gorse and heather. Slow rain extinguished the last burning bits of vegetation.

      ‘Not even a bone left!’ Gorvik wagged his uncouth head in disbelief. He had the physique of a blacksmith and a face that looked as though it had been well and truly smashed, then re-molded into an approximation of human features. ‘Nary a scrap o’cloth or bit o’ shoe-leather. The poor li’l sod’s vanished off the face o’ the earth. That’s some terrific sorcery!’

      ‘It’s Beaconfolk sorcery, the greatest there is – and the most dangerous.’

      Beynor drew Moss’s magnificent Sword of State, the only relic of his aborted reign as Conjure-King, and stirred the gritty ash with its tip. After a few moments he uncovered the ring carved from moonstone, together with a thin disk of the same material, narrowly framed in gold, that was less than a handspan in diameter. He stooped and retrieved them, and after wrapping each one carefully in cloth, slipped both objects into his wallet. He cleaned the sword against his bootcuff and replaced it in its scabbard.

      ‘Didja know Jegg ‘uz gonna die?’ Gorvik asked offhandedly. ‘I heard ye tell ‘im the Coldlight Army’d put power into the ring if he spoke the spell ye taught ‘im. But sumpin’ went way wrong, di’nit?’

      The rain fell harder. Beynor started back up the slope toward the shelter of the den, where the three of them had camped out during the final summer of searching. ‘So you eavesdropped on us.’

      ‘Nay, master. Just caught a few words by chance, like. And wondered why ye’d let a simple knave like Jegg do conjurin’ for ye, steada doin’ it yerself – or givin’ the job to a born wiz like me.’

      ‘It was a test,’ Beynor said shortly. ‘One that was regrettably necessary. And whether you realize it or not, the test was a success.’

      The hulking Didionite grinned,

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