The Guest House, Upchurch Manor. VIII Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Thirteen. After Vespers.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, St. James
“Well, I say good riddance to the sneaky, creepy, bastard,” declares St. James. “Although then again, I admit that he made some pretty interesting claims. I really would have liked to have seen Tim’s corpse hanging in the center of Heremac.”
Friar Sidrach frowns uncharacteristically and spits. “You did well to avoid entering into any agreement with that foul one, my son. You did well indeed. I know not where the Vavasor has disappeared to, but may he never darken Sir Aleck’s doorstep again.”
“Perhaps,” says Mendelor. “I’m not sure which is worse. Having him here, always watching and plotting—or not knowing where the hell he is. I much doubt he has had a change of heart and is out collected alms for lepers.”
“Indeed,” says the Friar. “And is it not curious, my sons, how he disappeared, right before the Yule, without so much as a word? I pray we have seen the last of him, but I fear that is not so.”
“Well, maybe if he came back Valerius would quit his sulking and fretting,” says St. James. “By the Hammer, I tell you that damned magician is as peevish as a wet cat these days!”
Mendelor laughs. “You’re right—he has been even more prickly than normal. I think he’s like that because Noxumbra’s gone. I’ve never fathomed just what kind of witchery binds him to that bird, and would just as soon not know.”
There is silence in the room, as the men nod in agreement.
“Are you still planning to see Kirke?” asks Sir Hamral.
“Aye,” replies the woodsman. “Once we get a break in the weather, I’ll follow Brandon’s men north. I want to see the Count and offer any assistance that I can. Maybe on the way we can round up any other stragglers from Kirke’s army.”
“I might wish to accompany you,” says the Friar. “These wondrous stories about Luke and Mark have piqued my curiosity. I should like to see these visions with my own two eyes.”
“I have thought as much, myself,” says Mendelor. “Friar, if these stories are true, what could it mean? Are they saints, now? Could you get the Church to recognize them as such?”
“I cannot speak with confidence on this matter,” says the Friar. “Certainly, there would be much resistance to the very notion of canonizing two ruck-men. But on the other hand, there is some precedence for such a move. Recall Good Ulfan, the Geaunt Saint—said to have stood as tall as a house.”
“Yes, yes,” says Mendelor. “I remember. I wonder, perhaps I could erect a shrine at the Hagges’ Cave. Make that a place where any Pentian rucks or men could find safe harbor from persecution.”
“A marvelous idea,” cries Friar Sidrach, leaping to his feet. “A marvelous idea, indeed!”
“What about you,” says Mendelor, turning to Hamral. “Would you follow us north, to see your liege, Count Durrell?”
Hamral, who had been engrossed in sharpening his sword, looks up at the woodsman. The knight’s eyes are steely cold with determination. “I am thinking of sending a message to Wolfgare Castle, challenging Prince Argus to personal combat.”
Near Upchurch Manor. XIII Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Thirteen. Sext.
Valerius.
The tall, thin magician stands in the empty white field, his black robes fluttering in the freezing wind. Valerius’s face is set toward the Shelding Mountains, their dark and broken peaks shimmering in the distant east. His gaze is fixed on a small black point, high in the sky. Slowly a smile begins to dawn upon the gaunt, bearded face.
The black point bobs and reels in the air, moving ever closer. At last Noxumbra flutters down to land on her master’s outstretched arm. Softly, Valerius strokes the bird’s head.
“So she has agreed to the meeting,” murmurs the magician.
Noxumbra lets out a loud caw in answer.
“When and where?” asks Valerius.
“The Lady will meet us on Midsummer’s Eve,” croaks Noxumbra. “The Lady will meet us at the Corbiestone.”
“Intriguing,” says Valerius, offering the raven a piece of salted herring, and the bird greedily snaps up the morsel.
“The Lady sends this,” croaks Noxumbra, rocking from one foot to the other. The raven then flicks a small, shining circle from her talons into the air.
Valerius catches the copper band and turns it over and over in his hand, his brow beetled in sharp scrutiny.
“A ring?” he says, though the words are not really a question.
“A token,” answers Noxumbra. “A mark of the Lady’s protection.”
“Well then,” says Valerius, the smile returning oddly to his lips. “It appears I should seek out Mendelor and Vandoren.”