Moliagul’s face passed in and out of a wan flicker of a smile. He shrugged. A long moment of thoughts passed through his eyes. At last he came to a decision, and gave a small, tired sigh. “My master, the Prince Morholt does sorely want Athairdrost’s head to be less connected to the rest of him. Of this magical old power that Athairdrost has, I know nothing, and care less. Does Athairdrost keep this object on his person?”
“We think so. Yes.”
“Then you will most certainly have to kill him dead if you want the thing.”
“I suppose we will.” The boy swallowed down a hardened, gristly knot in his throat. “But where is he? You said he must hold court soon? He’s obliged to be there, isn’t he? Princes have to be at their courts.”
“Yes, but don’t try your luck at the Blade Henge. He will be surrounded by knights and wizards there. Leave Baght Town and travel north and east. You will find a great wild forest. It is the Murksallows Woods. Out of the south of the woods runs a little boggy stream. Follow that north into the woods until you come to a pool with carven rocks about it. That is the scrying pool where Athairdrost practises his arts. None dare approach it, for fear of his revenge. If you do not fear his revenge, if you are quick, go there and wait for him. He will visit the scrying pool alone before he holds court at the Henge of the Blade-Black Stones.” He paused. “Though we have another small thorn of a problem.”
“What is that?”
“You know me, and you know I worked to help you. I cannot be sure that you will prevail. Can I?”
The boy shook his head.
“If Athairdrost takes you alive he will torture you to death, and then he torture what ghost remains of you. You will not be able to keep any secrets from him.” He smiled. “And besides, you’re a terrible liar.” He waved a hand at the others, asleep. “This lot: they can just wake up and wonder who rescued them… but you… for you, we must find another way.”
“I’ll not tell,” said the boy, his voice rising by the slightest note. He felt sweat prickling his palms. “You don’t need to do anything to me.”
Moliagul laughed and his black beard seemed to heave like a thundercloud. “Don’t piss your pants, lad. I’m not going to slit your throat. Only you can tell them lot about the scrying pool, right?” Another small sigh. This time he sounded more exasperated. “But I will have to work a charm on you. I’ll leave you with the knowledge that these dead corpses belong to Athairdrost, and that you are in danger here. You’ll know how to find our nasty sorcerous prince too. But I will not leave you with any memory of me and my men.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, lad.”
“No, I mean you won’t be able to. I have no name. Magic slips over me. It doesn’t take to me, like…” and he struggled, “like a plant trying to take root in loose sand. It takes a lot of power to make any magic stick to me.”
“That so? Well, we shall see.” The Thegn pressed a thumb into the boy’s forehead. He began to mutter. Words that seemed to be made of ice and shadow slipped out of his mouth. They cut the air and left pinpricks of frost up and down the boy’s skin. Blood gathered in the corners of Moliagul’s mouth–bright-dappling his beard–and he spoke the magic on and on. His face turned redder and redder as he spoke, and sweat gathered all over his brow, dripping. Finally, a last reverberation of force lurched through the boy. The thegn fell to his knees, breathing raggedly and heavily. He caught himself by one hand, or else would have sprawled to the floor entirely.
Whatever the magic was supposed to do, it did not achieve it. The boy could remember everything perfectly. “Sir-” he started to say, but the thegn stood and said, “Thaille.”
“What?”
“Thaille. My name is Thaille. Thaille, Thegn of Moliagul” He wiped blood from his mouth, looked at it glistening on the back of his hand and said to the nearest of his men, “Check the bodies. One of Athairdrost’s men might still be lingering on this side of death. If you find a man who still draws even the slightest breath, bring him to me.”
The man paled.
“That’s ill-wrought magic,” said one of them.
“Ill or no, it must be done. So do it.”
The boy wondered what he meant to do, but he did not need to wonder long.
“You spoke the truth. More truth than I want.” A small and fleeting smile played in his eyes. “You are indeed wreathed against the arts most witching.” He shook his head, grimly. “No hasty spell of mine will get its claws into you. But, if I draw on old slow magic, on life and death.. well, then we might have more of a chance.”
They brought one of the men in chalk and soot leathers. Although he was still breathing raggedly, his side had been opened by a jagged sword cut and his skin was quite bloodless.
The thegn drew a wicked curved knife from his belt, and whispered, “Ill-wrought by blood and darkness. Ill-wrought magic. And so it must be.”
The man might have been already upon the threshold of death, but he still begged for his life, he still hissed terrified words through broken teeth, when he felt the dagger’s tip.