The Blade Itself

“Not much. The stones by the gate have the word of Juvens on them, and that is not to be denied, even now. No one with violence in mind can come near. I imagine Bethod’s men will wander around the lake in the rain until they run out of food, all the while thinking how very strange it is that they cannot find so large a thing as a library. No,” said the wizard happily, scratching at his beard. “I would concentrate on our own predicament. What happens, do you think, if we’re caught?”

“Bethod will kill us, and in the most unpleasant manner he can think of. Unless he has it in mind to be merciful, and let us off with a warning.”

“That doesn’t seem likely.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing. Our best chance is to make for the Whiteflow, try to get across the river into Angland, and trust to luck we aren’t seen.” Logen didn’t like trusting to luck, the very word left a sour taste. He peered up at the cloudy sky. “We could do with some bad weather. A healthy downpour could hide us nicely.” The skies had been pissing on him for weeks, but now that he needed rain they refused to produce a drop.

Malacus Quai was looking over his shoulder at them, his eyes big and round with worry. “Shouldn’t we try to move faster?”

“Perhaps,” said Logen, patting the neck of his horse, “but that would tire the horses, and we may need all the speed we can get later. We could hide in the day and travel by night, but then we risk getting lost. We’re better as we are. Move slowly and hope we aren’t seen.” He frowned at the hilltop. “Hope we haven’t been seen already.”

“Hmm,” said Bayaz, “then this might be the best time to tell you. That witch Caurib isn’t half the fool I pretended she was.”

Logen felt a sinking sensation. “No?”

“No, for all her paint and gold and chat about the utmost north, she knows what she is about. The long eye, they call it. An old trick, but effective. She has been watching us.”

“She knows where we are?”

“She knows when we left, more than likely, and in what direction we were heading.”

“That does nothing for our chances.”

“I should say not.”

“Shit.” Logen caught some movement in the trees to their left, and he snatched hold of the hilt of his sword. A couple of birds took to the skies. He waited, heart in his mouth. Nothing. He let his hand drop back. “We should have killed them while we had the chance. All three of them.”

“But we didn’t, and there it is.” Bayaz looked over at Logen. “If they do catch us, what’s your plan?”

“Run. And hope our horses are the faster.”

“And this one?” asked Bayaz.

The wind blew keenly through the hollow in spite of the trees, making the flames of the campfire flicker and dance. Malacus Quai hunched his shoulders and drew his blanket tight around them. He peered at the short stem that Bayaz was holding up to him, forehead crinkled with concentration.

“Erm…” This was the fifth plant, and the miserable apprentice had yet to get one of them right. “Is that… er… Ilyith?”

“Ilyith?” echoed the wizard, his face giving no clue as to whether it was the right answer. He was merciless as Bethod where his apprentice was concerned.

“Perhaps?”

“Hardly.” The apprentice closed his eyes and sighed for the fifth time that evening. Logen felt for him, he really did, but there was nothing to be done. “Ursilum, in the old tongue, the round-leafed kind.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Ursilum, it was at the end of my tongue the whole time.”

“If the name was at the end of your tongue, then the uses of the plant cannot be far behind, eh?”

The apprentice narrowed his eyes and looked hopefully up towards the night sky, as though the answer might be written in the stars. “Is it… for aches in the joints?”

“No, it is decidedly not. I am afraid your aching joints will still be troubling you.” Bayaz turned the stem slowly round in his fingers. “Ursilum has no uses, not that I know of. It’s just a plant.” And he tossed it away into the bushes.

“Just a plant,” echoed Quai, shaking his head. Logen sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.

“I’m sorry, Master Ninefingers, are we boring you?”

“What does it matter?” asked Logen, throwing his hands up in the air. “Who cares about the name of a plant with no use?”

Bayaz smiled. “A fair point. Tell us, Malacus, what does it matter?”

“If a man seeks to change the world, he should first understand it.” The apprentice trotted the words out as if by rote, evidently relieved to be asked a question he knew the answer to. “The smith must learn the ways of metals, the carpenter the ways of wood, or their work will be of but little worth. Base magic is wild and dangerous, for it comes from the Other Side, and to draw from the world below is fraught with peril. The Magus tempers magic with knowledge, and thus produces High Art, but like the smith or the carpenter, he should only seek to change that which he understands. With each thing he learns, his power is increased. So must the Magus strive to learn all, to understand the world entire. The tree is only as strong as its root, and knowledge is the root of power.”