called the Codex Of Northern Sagas…” She indicated a fringed cloth bookmark protruding from the pages. “That marks the place of a very old sagasong called ‘How Raegal Sang A Road To The Land Of The Daemons’ which, unfortunately, is written in an ancient Othazi dialect. While I am away, could you make enquiries among the scholars of the city to see if anyone is able to translate it?”
“Why, I would be happy to.”
Keren smiled. “Oh, thank you. I’m taking a copy with me, in case I encounter someone capable of translating it, but it is good to know that another will be pursuing the mystery. If you speak with Bardow he will know which of the colleges to approach, and when I return we can compare notes, eh?” She laid a hand on Alael’s arm. “Take care in your dreams, little sister. And don’t be too afraid of looking Tauric in the eye.”
From a balcony off the conclave chamber, Alael held onto the book firmly and watched the delegates coach clatter away from the palace, heading off towards the harbour. There, they were due to board a fast galley to take them to Sejeend where a barge would carry them along Gronanvel to the northern end of the Red Way. From there, they would travel south on horseback to Dalbar’s capital, Scallow. As the coach receded, she uttered an inner prayer for their safety.
“Ah, I see she gave you that collection of, ah, doggerel.”
It was Archmage Bardow, regarding her with a humorous gaze.
“Oh, ser Bardow, I am to ask you about which colleges…”
“Indeed, translations and so forth. I can offer a few recommendations, but I would prefer to deal with that later since there is another more pressing problem at hand. I have been meaning to discuss certain matters with Nerek and yourself, and this assassination business has made it all the more urgent. I shall be meeting Nerek in the mage hall shortly - if you join us now, we can make a start. Is that agreeable? And we can talk about that translation after.”
Alael thought a moment, picturing Nerek in her mind, and knew that she needed to know more about Keren’s sorcerous twin.
“I would most happy to help,” she said.
“Excellent, then let us be on our way. Time is of the essence - Lord Regent Mazaret will be at the gates in only a few hours…”
* * *
It was late afternoon when Mazaret and his knights escorted the wagons of wounded and refugees through the Gallaro Gate. City wardens were already waiting, alerted by the message bird he had sent from the fort at Shekaruk Pass. There would be food and drink and warm shelter, remedy for the sick and care for the anguished.
The first watch-brands were being lit along the city walls as Mazaret and the others rode their weary horses up the Shaska Road. Snow and sleet had come down in icy, needling showers during the return journey, but now the sky was a dark blue, star-strewn canopy where scraps and rags of cloud rushed from horizon to horizon. It was dry but the wind that blew in from the bay was bitterly cold and made all of Mazaret's wounds ache just that little bit more. The slash at the back of his head, however, was a constant source of pain. Terzis had successfully cleaned the laceration and healed its edges, but the shock, concussion and bruising had combined to make him feel every one of his fifty-two years.
When they neared the Ironhall Barracks, Mazaret and Captain Kance shook hands before the Fathertree Knights turned away to their new quarters. Mazaret and Terzis urged their mounts along the other road, splashing through pools of slush before they reached the main palace gate. Once through, they dismounted and let the ostlers lead the horses away, then walked an ache-filled walk across the torch-lit yard to the northern vestibule. There, a court steward was waiting.
“Welcome back, Lord Regent. Lady Terzis, I am to inform you that the magehall steward wishes to speak with you upon your arrival.”
“My thanks, ser,” Terzis said, turning to
“Why, I would be happy to.”
Keren smiled. “Oh, thank you. I’m taking a copy with me, in case I encounter someone capable of translating it, but it is good to know that another will be pursuing the mystery. If you speak with Bardow he will know which of the colleges to approach, and when I return we can compare notes, eh?” She laid a hand on Alael’s arm. “Take care in your dreams, little sister. And don’t be too afraid of looking Tauric in the eye.”
From a balcony off the conclave chamber, Alael held onto the book firmly and watched the delegates coach clatter away from the palace, heading off towards the harbour. There, they were due to board a fast galley to take them to Sejeend where a barge would carry them along Gronanvel to the northern end of the Red Way. From there, they would travel south on horseback to Dalbar’s capital, Scallow. As the coach receded, she uttered an inner prayer for their safety.
“Ah, I see she gave you that collection of, ah, doggerel.”
It was Archmage Bardow, regarding her with a humorous gaze.
“Oh, ser Bardow, I am to ask you about which colleges…”
“Indeed, translations and so forth. I can offer a few recommendations, but I would prefer to deal with that later since there is another more pressing problem at hand. I have been meaning to discuss certain matters with Nerek and yourself, and this assassination business has made it all the more urgent. I shall be meeting Nerek in the mage hall shortly - if you join us now, we can make a start. Is that agreeable? And we can talk about that translation after.”
Alael thought a moment, picturing Nerek in her mind, and knew that she needed to know more about Keren’s sorcerous twin.
“I would most happy to help,” she said.
“Excellent, then let us be on our way. Time is of the essence - Lord Regent Mazaret will be at the gates in only a few hours…”
* * *
It was late afternoon when Mazaret and his knights escorted the wagons of wounded and refugees through the Gallaro Gate. City wardens were already waiting, alerted by the message bird he had sent from the fort at Shekaruk Pass. There would be food and drink and warm shelter, remedy for the sick and care for the anguished.
The first watch-brands were being lit along the city walls as Mazaret and the others rode their weary horses up the Shaska Road. Snow and sleet had come down in icy, needling showers during the return journey, but now the sky was a dark blue, star-strewn canopy where scraps and rags of cloud rushed from horizon to horizon. It was dry but the wind that blew in from the bay was bitterly cold and made all of Mazaret's wounds ache just that little bit more. The slash at the back of his head, however, was a constant source of pain. Terzis had successfully cleaned the laceration and healed its edges, but the shock, concussion and bruising had combined to make him feel every one of his fifty-two years.
When they neared the Ironhall Barracks, Mazaret and Captain Kance shook hands before the Fathertree Knights turned away to their new quarters. Mazaret and Terzis urged their mounts along the other road, splashing through pools of slush before they reached the main palace gate. Once through, they dismounted and let the ostlers lead the horses away, then walked an ache-filled walk across the torch-lit yard to the northern vestibule. There, a court steward was waiting.
“Welcome back, Lord Regent. Lady Terzis, I am to inform you that the magehall steward wishes to speak with you upon your arrival.”
“My thanks, ser,” Terzis said, turning to
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