Slipping over the side into the hip-deep water, Seregil drew his sword and waded ashore.
The beach lay at the head of a deep cleft in the surrounding ledge, making an oblique approach impossible, and the slanting evening light lit it like a stage. The shingle was made up of small, wave-polished stones that crunched and rattled under his boots as he continued up toward the fire.
Might just as well tie a bell around my neck, he thought uneasily, picturing archers tracking him from the ledges and swordsmen in the thickets.
But the cove was peaceful. Standing still, he listened carefully. Over the sigh of the wind, he heard the mournful music of doves and white throats in the woods, the clacking croak of a heron stalking the shallows somewhere nearby. No one was disturbing them.
Encouraged but wary, he crunched up the shingle to the fire. There was no sign of habitation, no packs or refuse. As he came nearer, he realized with a nasty start that the flames were giving off no heat. It was an illusion.
A branch snapped in the forest and he crouched, bracing for ambush. A tall, spare figure stepped from the trees.
"Here you are at last, dear boy," a familiar voice greeted him in Skalan.
"Nysander?" Still wary, Seregil remained where he was as the wizard pushed back his hood. Dressed for traveling, Nysander wore an old surcoat and loose breeches, and his faded cloak was held at the throat with the worn bronze brooch he always used.
As he came forward into the light, Seregil let out a startled gasp. Even in the ruddy light of sunset, Nysander looked ghostly. His face was the color of bone and more deeply lined than ever. Worse yet, he looked shrunken in on himself, diminished, like the gnarled caricature of an old man carved in fresh ivory. Only his bright eyes and the familiar warmth in his voice seemed to have come back to him intact.
The surprise of their unexpected meeting left Seregil wary of illusion, however. Quelling the impulse to embrace his old friend, Seregil kept his distance and asked, "How did you find us?"
Nysander made a sour face. "That blood charm you left with Magyana, of course. It took some managing and magic, but here I am."
Sheathing his sword, Seregil gave the old man a joyous hug. "I knew you'd do it, but by the Light, you look awful!"
"As do you, dear boy," Nysander chuckled.
Micum hauled the boat in and ran up the shingle to join them.
"You mean to say you were here waiting for us?" he cried, looking Nysander over in wonder. "How did you know? And why didn't you send us a message by magic?"
"All in good time," the old wizard sighed, sinking down on a driftwood log and waving the illusory fire out of existence. "I must admit, I am equally relieved to see you. I feared I might have missed you after all."
"Do you know anything about Alec?" Seregil asked hopefully, sitting down beside him.
"No, but you must not despair," Nysander told him, patting his shoulder kindly. "If he were dead, I would know it. The force of the prophecy is binding us closer with every passing day."
Micum kicked together a pile of driftwood sticks and fished a firechip from a pouch at his belt. "Well, I haven't had any great visions or dreams, but the more I see of this business, the more
I believe it. By the Flame, Nysander, look at you. How can you have gotten here at all?"
"Look at me, indeed," Nysander replied rather ruefully. "One does not return from such a journey as the dyrmagnos sent me on without showing a bit of wear. But there was some value to it. While my body healed, my mind floated free among dreams and visions. I believe I know how to find the temple we seek. It is marked by a large white stone surrounded by black ones. And it is near the sea."
Disappointment settled in Seregil's belly like a bad dinner. "That's it? You're telling me in all the hundreds of square miles around that mountain we have to find one rock?"
"That's not much to go on," Micum noted, echoing his skepticism.
Yet Nysander appeared perfectly complaisant. "We will find it," he assured them. "It does not guarantee our success, but we will find it."
"I've been having dreams of my own," Seregil told him.
"You've done more than that," Micum snorted. "Show him your chest."
Seregil peeled off the bandage and showed Nysander the crusted yellow scab that had formed around the scar. "It must be some kind of sign. Leiteus claimed this was the night the comet would appear."
"Undoubtedly," Nysander agreed. "Whether it is an omen of good or ill remains to be seen. What was your dream?"
Seregil picked up a knife-shaped stone and rubbed it between his hands. "I can never remember much of it, just the image of a figure with a misshapen head looking down at me through water while I drown. Isn't there something you could do to sort of pull more of it out of me?"
Nysander shook his head. "I must conserve both my strength and my magic. What little I have was hard-won and will be needed for what lies before us now. Even the fire I used to signal you was from a spell
Magyana made for me. As for the dream, it must be some sort of preparation for the task ahead."
Micum ran his hands back through his thick red hair and sighed. "Do you think you could be a bit more specific?"
Nysander nodded. "Before the attack on the Oreska I hoped I would never have to tell you. Afterward, I was unable to."
"As Seregil has told you, there is a prophecy which names four persons, the Guardian, the Shaft, the Vanguard, and the Guide. I am the Guardian, and have been since the days of my apprenticeship with Arkoniel. What we have guarded, there below the Oreska House, was a fragment of a necromantic object called the Helm of Seriamaius."
"The bowl," Seregil interjected.
Nysander glanced at him in surprise. "How on earth did you learn that?"
"More visions," said Micum, tossing wood on the fire. The sun was disappearing into the western sea, leaving the stars spread like a diamond veil above them.
"Yes, it was a bowl," Nysander went on. "And then Seregil and Alec brought me the wooden disk. Just before the Festival of Sakor, I sent Seregil after a third object, a crown which had been hidden deep in the Ashek mountains. He knew at once, both by the condition of the bodies of sacrificial victims he found there and the evil magic that surrounded it, that it was related to the disk.
However, I told him nothing and swore him to secrecy. Not even Alec knew."
"I still don't see how you'd get any sort of helmet out of those odds and ends," said Micum.
"Their appearance hides their true form. A powerful protective glamour was placed on them by the necromancers who created them. Who would guess, even having all the pieces in hand, that a lopsided clay bowl, a crystal crown, and a handful of wooden disks could be parts of a common whole?"
"What does it do, when it's all put together?"
"It was created to channel the power of the dark god. No one knows how long it took to forge the different elements, or what magicks were used. It first appeared near the end of the Great War, when it was assembled and placed on a man they called the Vatharna, or chosen one. Fortunately, the wizards of Skala and Aurenen overcame the first Vatharna before he had the opportunity to fully manifest the magic of the Helm."
"You mean to say that this Vatharna of theirs would eventually have all the powers of their death god?" asked Micum.
"No one knows what the extent of its abilities might have been, but there is evidence that even in the short time it existed, the Helm granted its wearer terrible necromantic power. If it had not been dismantled when it was, I doubt anyone could have overcome it."