“I’m astonished,” Acopulo said dryly. “You have exhausted neither the fifteen minutes allotted nor yourself, apparently. Is that not remarkable, Legate?”
“Commendable,” Shandie said. His heartbeat was slowly returning to normal. Obviously his companions had heard nothing of the bizarre conversation. ”Very efficient. What do you know of Wold Hall, gentlemen?”
“The Treaty of Wold Hall?” Acopulo said, frowning. “Signed in . . . around . . . 2900. Dwarves.”
“It was a hunting lodge,” Umpily said, “favored by the Impress Abnila. Used for secret conferences sometimes. Somewhere on the Great East Way, I believe.”
There are precedents. If the Impress Abnila had consulted a preflecting pool, then her great-great-grandson certainly could. “It may be around here, then,” Shandie said. “Can you find out for me?”
Surprised, Umpily nodded. “If it is in the neighborhood.” He pushed away his bowl and drained the tankard. Then he licked his spoon to tuck it back in his pouch. “I think I saw a selection of cheeses over there on the bar.” He heaved his bulk up and pushed away through the mob.
“What do you know of preflecting pools?” Shandie asked. Acopulo’s scrawny face narrowed in astonishment. “As much as any, which is little. The dear doctor made a study of such devices and discovered almost nothing. I have heard opinions that preflecting pools are more dependable than magic casements, which promote only the interests of the house. The pools may be more limited in scope, but less devious. They supposedly give honest answers to the inquirer. Talking statues, of course, are something else again . . .”
“Thank you,” Shandie said quickly. “I was told once that there was a preflecting pool at Wold Hall.”
The priestly face lit up with interest. “If that is so, then it would be worth a visit.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Shandie said.
“Shall we be staying here awhile, then?” Ylo asked thoughtfully.
Wold Hall, or what was left of it, stood in a rugged glen about a league west of the inn—so the innkeeper had reported, and the travelers found the turnoff without trouble. The rain had gone and a quarter moon floated among silver clouds, but dawn could not be far off. An ancient military road wandered away over the hills, then plunged steeply down into woodland. The horses soon became as jumpy as fleas.
It was hard to blame them, for the wind rustled leaves overhead, spattering cold drops of water at random, while the footing was a treacherous medley of rocks and mud and puddles.
The obvious danger was making Hardgraa petulant. Had the centurion known of the mysterious shrouded woman, he would have become mutinous, but everyone assumed that Shandie had dreamed up the expedition on his own and had been planning it for some time.
They all wanted to wait until daylight, of course, but that would have meant staying on all night, as well, to see the pool by moonlight. The moon might not be visible the next night; there might be no pool at all. The whole thing could even be a well-organized assassination plot, but Shandie hated reversing a decision once he had made it. He knew that streak of stubbornness might land him in trouble one day; he just hoped this was not the day.
Then an owl glided overhead, spooking Ylo’s horse, which was the most skittish. Skilled rider though he was, he almost went into the mud. Shandie called a halt. The legionaries were left to tend the mounts and the others set off on foot. The civilians were well shod, but the soldiers had to manage in regulation army sandals.
A half hour’s misery brought them to an imposing wall, of standard military construction—when the legions weren’t fighting, they were always kept busy building something. It was in sad disrepair, showing evidence that the locals had been quarrying it for building stone. The gates were missing, doubtless long since melted down; Shandie led the way through the gap, into a tangle of unkempt forest.
Numerous jagged walls within the undergrowth hinted at former farm buildings and remains of guard barracks, all roofless now and decayed among the encroaching jungle. The whole complex would likely have held a population of several hundred in its days of glory.
Eventually the half-buried path led to a clearing before the main building itself, stark in the moonlight. One end was obviously very old, the other could be dated by its pointed arches to about the time of the great impress. It had all been gutted by fire. Its windows were gaunt as sockets in a skull.
The sky was already growing brighter.
“Let’s split up,” Shandie suggested. “The pool must be somewhere around here.”
“Sir!” Hardgraa rumbled warningly. He had been carrying his sword in his hand since leaving the horses. “You have no idea who or what may live here!”
“Whoever it is, it doesn’t trample weeds.” Shandie strode off to begin exploring.
No squatters were discovered before a shout from the portly Umpily brought the others to inspect his find. He was standing on a terrace, overshadowed by trees. Weeds and roots had thrust up the paving stones and the flanking balustrade was half in ruin. A flight of stone stairs led down to a gleam of water directly below.
“Not very impressive,” Acopulo remarked with a disparaging sniff. ”I certainly don’t recommend drinking from it.”
“I wouldn’t water a horse at it,” Shandie agreed, scowling at silvery scum and odd wisps of mist that drifted over the surface.
“You couldn’t get a horse to it.”
And that was obviously true. The pool was smaller than he had expected, but its edges were concealed by trailing shrubs and willow trees, so it might be larger than it seemed. The sides of the hollow rose steeply, the steps being the only visible access.
“What does one do?” Umpily inquired, coughing in the morning damp. The air was cool and everyone was shivery with lack of sleep. “Chant at it, or invoke it, or jump in?” He sounded unwilling to do any of those things.
“You put one foot in it,” Shandie explained, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Right foot to see what you should seek, left foot to see what you should shun.” No one asked where he had learned such flummery—they all knew that he spoke with warlocks.
“One prophecy per customer?” Acopulo said.
“Sounds like that.” Shandie headed for the top of the stairway. The woman had implied that the pool was in magical disrepair. There might only be one prophecy per night, and if so he intended to have it for himself. More likely nothing at all would happen and he was going to make a fool of himself.
The steps were unsteady, caked in loam, masked in shadow. He felt his way down very cautiously, one uneven tread at a time, while steadying himself with a hand on the mossy blocks of the wall. Unless the construction was a faked antique, this part of the complex predated Abnila by centuries. It might have been a mundane pool at first, of course, and been ensorceled later.
He almost stepped into water before he realized, for the steps continued on, under the surface.
From the last dry slab he looked across a dark and oily expanse much larger than it had seemed from up high. The wind did not penetrate into the hollow. The slowly writhing traces of mist were more obvious at this level, as unpleasantly eerie as the pallid patches of scum. There was no color in the moonlight. He could see the moon reflected, of course, and the silvered edge of clouds and the trees. No water weeds or lilies, but there was an odd scent—not decay, but almost sweet, like a hint of incense.
Leaning over, he could make out his own reflection, his helmet shining. The heads of his companions stood out against the sky, as they peered over the balustrade to watch him. He hoped they did not lean too hard and bring it all crashing down.
Dawn was advancing, so he must make a move. Did he want to know of danger—the face, perhaps, of a future assassin, or a traitor? He was well protected always and would be even better protected in future. Every man must die at last, and he certainly did not want to view his own death. Nor would there be much value in a prophecy of some catastrophe in the far future—he assumed he would live to a ripe antiquity, like his grandfather.
To ask to see the good news might merely produce an image of his beloved Eshiala, of course. That might not be an earthshattering revelation, but at least it would make the side trip worthwhile. And he had so many reforms he wanted to introduce when he mounted the throne—perhaps this sorcery could help him decide where to start? He leaned against the wall and removed his right sandal. Then he put his bare foot in the water.