After a surprisingly pleasant cat-stew dinner Grantin retired to a rickety couch in Sara's two-room cabin. The strain of his crude sorcery and the deprivations of travel had weakened him more than he realized. Now, safe and well fed, he fell into a deep slumber and did not waken until late the next morning. He even enjoyed a respite from the worst side effects of the powerstone. Grantin could barely remember the five or six nightmares which had terrified his sleeping brain.
Bleary-eyed, Grantin reluctantly regained consciousness. It took him several seconds to lever his body into sitting position. His limbs felt numb and heavy. Without a doubt he had to rid himself of the ring. Perhaps Greyhorn would yet forgive him if he managed to remove the bloodstone and return it to his uncle.
"So you've come back to the living, have you, Master Grantin?" Sara called from the front door.
"Aajh, I… cough, eeech, cough, cough."
"The same to you, I'm sure. Is this how you normally greet people in the morning?"
"I… eemch… I don't feel quite myself just yet."
"Are you sick?"
"No, not exactly. I suppose I may as well tell you. A curse was laid on me by my uncle. Demons haunt me while I sleep. Sometimes it makes it hard to get up. If I could only find the right wizard I'm sure he could lift the curse and bring me back to health again."
Sara studied Grantin carefully, a calculating glint in her eye. He refused to meet her gaze. Obviously he could not tell her the truth about the ring. The last thing he needed was another person trying to fix his hand under the blade of a meat cleaver. All for her own good, Grantin consoled himself. A bauble such as this would only lead her to a bad end anyway. Still, for some reason, Grantin's duplicity bothered him.
"There wouldn't happen to be such a wizard in this vicinity?" he asked, focusing his eyes on a point above Sara's left shoulder.
"Maybe, maybe not. Wizards there are, but wizards such as you need, that's another question. Certainly none that will do it for free. Can you pay?"
"Only in heartfelt gratitude and a sincere promise to someday return tenfold any favors which are done me," Grantin replied with a poor imitation of sincerity.
"Goodwill means precious little to the outcast wizards here in Grenitch Wood. Have you no gold or silver? Gems or coins?"
Grantin shook his head.
"How about that trinket?" Sara asked, pointing at the ring.
Grantin considered the suggestion for no more than a tenth of a second. Without hesitation he replied:
"The ring-that is, I suppose, a possibility. I will say this: any wizard who cures me of my problem may have the ring for the effort of slipping it from my finger- though, to be honest, that might not be as easy as it seems. This lovely bauble is a family heirloom. In order to restrain my parting with it for some insignificant purpose, my father, when he put it on my finger, laid a powerful spell which prevents the ring's removal. Any sorcerer who is skilled enough to neutralize the injunction may keep it as his pay."
"Master Grantin, for some reason I am not convinced you are exactly what you seem. There's something about all this which doesn't seem quite right to me-but then, what business is it of mine? It's of little importance, in any event."
"Then you know of no such wizard?"
"Oh, there's a mighty wizard barely three leagues away. Skilled in all the arts, black and white. A man with magnificent powers, and interested in a new challenge, too. But he's not for you."
"Even with all his powers you think he could not do the job?"
"Oh, he could do it, I'm sure, if anyone could, but…"
"But?"
"… but he's hopelessly mad. His mind's more twisted than an acre of briars. He thinks of nothing but his magic and power and revenge upon the world."
"Do you think he would kill me out of hand?"
"Oh, no, he's crafty and often displays great cunning, but he wouldn't kill you for no reason."
"Well, then, I should be safe. What reason would he have to harm me? All he need do is cure the nightmares and keep the ring as his pay. I go my way and he goes his. The worst that can happen is he can refuse to help me or prove unequal to the task."
"His worst is much worse than that. He's the most arrogant man alive. He's as sensitive to failure as a wound is to salt. He boasts that he is the greatest wizard in all of Fane. It would gall him to admit defeat. If he failed to remove your spell you would not leave his manor house alive. Oh, he's a twisted man. It think it has something to do with his size."
"He's large and ferocious then."
"No, Master Grantin, a dwarf barely four feet tall. His physical deformity he can hide under wizard's robes, but his madness shows through his eyes."
"Still, if he's as powerful as you say, it is unlikely that he will fail. You don't know what it's been like these last few days since… since I've suffered under this curse. I have no choice. I must take the chance. What's the wizard's name? Can you give me directions to his house?"
"His name's Shenar. To reach his manor, continue on through the village and follow the river north for two leagues. You'll come to a small stream. Follow it one league to the east. It passes within sight of the big, dirty stone mausoleum where he plays his games and plans his spells."
"For someone who thinks he is a man to be feared you certainly seem to know a lot about this Shenar. How is it you are so well informed?"
"That's not so strange. You see, he's my son."
Sara paused at the doorway and shook her head in pity at the now chastened Grantin.
"Enough of all this, Master Grantin. It's your life, sure enough. Do what you think best. Don't take good advice when you hear it. I've got work to do. I have to earn my keep."
Sara turned away and walked out into the middle of the main street. A moment later Grantin, stiff-legged, trotted to her side.
"Why don't you let me help? When your chores are done I'll give you a hand with lunch and think over what you've told me. Shenar will still be in his house this afternoon if I haven't changed my mind."
With a nod of gruff assent Sara accepted Grantin's proposal. Both strode forward to the edge of the settlement.
The work loosened Grantin's muscles and to his surprise he gained a strange pleasure from the strain of physical labor. When Pyra was slightly past its zenith, dogs and humans alike ceased work, the bassets to retreat for their afternoon siesta while Grantin and Sara lunched on berries and salad, toasted puffballs, jelly apples, and thick slices of coarse bread.
Some two leagues away Rupert sat amid tussocks of tall grass, his back against a granite ledge, eyes closed. With the employment of one of his standard spells he had arranged to utilize the eyes of the Siamese scout. Hidden in the branches of a tree only a few yards from Sara's hut, the cat watched the humans finish their lunch. Bits of their conversation occasionally drifted in her direction. Though the animal understood little human speech, Rupert was well able to find meaning in their words.
"So, Master Grantin, in spite of everything you've decided to visit Shenar."
"How did you…"
"I can see it in your eyes. I'm not a wizard's mother for nothing. I, too, have my talents."
Only a portion of the conversation reached Rupert. What was that name again-Shenar? Closer, cat, closer.
Reluctantly the Sealpoint crept farther out along the branch. This was dangerous territory. Here in the tree retreat was impossible. Stealthily, step by step, the Siamese edged her way out along the branch until she was almost directly above the table.
"Do you mind if I come back here to spend the night after I finish with Shenar?"
"Why should I mind? The chances of your returning are almost nil, so what do I risk by saying yes?"
Grantin flicked his eyes down to the remnants of the meal on his plate. The old woman hated her son-and feared him too. Whatever the bitterness between them, it must have poisoned her mind. He wasn't gratuitously cruel, she admitted that. Only when he had a reason, a purpose, would Shenar be a bad risk. And Grantin would give him no cause. No, he would play to perfection the part of an ignorant peasant, his real motives hidden by the story of a nightmare curse.
A leaf fluttered down and landed at the edge of Grantin's plate, then a second leaf settled to the table two inches from the first.
Grantin picked up the second leaf and snapped it in half. Holding the sap-stained edges beneath his nose, he inhaled the wintry mint fragrance peculiar to the snaf tree. He tossed the pieces back onto the table.
A third leaf had joined its cousins. What was going on here? Was the tree diseased? Grantin tilted his head and scanned the branches above him. Something was not quite right, something out of place. The color was subtly wrong, not silver-green but more gray-gray like the fur of a cat! Grantin jumped to his feet and backpedaled away from the table to view the limb at a different angle. Now Sara also arose and began weaving from side to side, trying to peer through the branches.
"Cat! Cat! A cat in the tree! There's a cat in the tree."
Instantly moaning bays echoed from several nearby huts. The dogs snoozed no longer, their siesta interrupted by the news of the interloper. They erupted from their hovels and sprinted forward to surround the tree. The cat barely had time to back off along the branch and reach the central trunk before four or five bassets were standing on hind legs, paws against the bark.
Grantin stood immobile beyond the circle of howling dogs. Sara hunted up a rock. She wound back her arm and threw the stone with great force, but the cat ducked behind a branch. The missile bounced off an intervening limb to land amid the baying dogs. Sara seemed to have expected that and was equipped with another stone. Only a second or two behind the first this rock whistled forward on a more accurate course. At the last instant the cat leaped aside, but in missing the stone she fell from her perch. Instantly the dogs were upon her.
Two leagues away Rupert raced to break the spell before the instant of death fed back into his own mind. He escaped the reaper's scythe, but not by much. His head rang and he could still feel the burning pain of sharp teeth puncturing his throat. Panting, Rupert relaxed back against the boulder and composed himself.
"That's a bad sign. Master Grantin," Sara said, nodding at the carcass of the cat. "They never come this far without a good reason. I don't know what this is all about, but I'd wager that it has something to do with you. She must have overheard your plans. You'd be wise not to go anywhere near Shenar's castle now."
What should he do? Absentmindedly Grantin fingered the ring. In his nervous state he gave it a sharp tug. A hot spike jolted his nerves. He let go of the band.
"I have no choice. Shenar is my only hope."
Sara shrugged and walked Grantin as far as the river. There she bid him farewell, convinced that she would never see him again. A few minutes later Rupert had recovered from the shock of the Siamese's death. He knew where Grantin was headed. By traveling in a straight line through the woods he would be able to intercept the youth before he reached Shenar's castle. Shenar-ah, that was a name out of the past. At one time he and his mother had been Zaco's deacons, before they had incurred his enmity and fled Cicero in disgrace. Perhaps he would settle a score with Shenar as well after he had finished with the Hartford. Rupert stood, brushed the moss from his pants, and then set out across the forest. He walked at a fast pace, keeping a steady beat by repeating over and over his instructions from Lord Hazar:
"The finger, the hand, the arm, the head, cut off the ring before he's dead. The finger, the hand, the arm, the head…" Rupert chanted as he marched through the woods.