Though Pyra had long since fled the sky Castor still sat at his window and gazed at the moon-tinted crooked shadows below. An unseen ghost-storm was building, gathering its energies like a dirty psychic wind. Castor could feel its power barely held in check. The forces derived from the Gogol city of Cicero half a league away. If something were not done, and soon, the maelstrom would sweep up everyone, humans and Ajaj like. What could he, one lone Ajaj, do to prevent the catastrophe?
Reluctantly he rose, swung the window grate into place, fastened it, then pushed the granite slab across the narrow door. He set out his warning bells and pronounced his spell of protection. Convinced that all was secure, he crawled into his sleep niche and slid closed the curtain.
Castor lay on his back, hands crossed at his shoulders where they could be quickly moved to guard his throat in case of attack. Tonight, sleep eluded him. Perhaps it was tension brought on by the decision maker's warning. The fur along his neck rippled as if in a static field. Castor twisted uneasily on his thin mattress. His arms and legs distracted him with sudden itches. With conscious effort he ceased his movements and willed his breathing to a regular steady beat. At last a heavy suffocating sleep seemed ready to descend. Castor welcomed it, concentrating his attention on counting the purple-black star bursts which sparkled in the gloom of his inner eye.
Involuntarily he watched these flickerings. Almost against his will, he strained his pupils to focus upon their shape and distance. What were these strange lights within his brain? His body now heavy and constricted, Castor kept alive a spark of consciousness for the sole purpose of pondering that question. With a start the answer came to him. The itches, the tingles, the chills, the points of light behind his lids could have but one explanation: he was the victim of a powerful and deadly spell.
Fighting silken bonds, Castor struggled back to a state of full awareness. With great effort he found that he could still move his arms and legs, although they felt as if they were made of lead. He rolled to his left and tumbled from his sleeping niche in an ungainly sprawl. He lay on the stone floor for a moment, then, gathering his strength, struggled to his feet. Using the wall for support, moving only a few inches at a time. Castor managed to reach his strongbox hidden beneath the flagstones of his parlor. For ten minutes his clumsy, blunt-edged fingers struggled with the inlaid bits of stone until at last the key piece came loose. Awkwardly Castor pulled up the metal box, mumbled his spell of release, and opened the lid.
Inside were his papers of heritage listing all of his ancestors back to the founding of Fane and beyond. Beneath them lay two golds, six silvers, and three coppers, his entire life's savings. A prayer band saved against such time as he might form his triad and conceive an heir, and lastly, in a carved wooden box on a pillow of satin and silk a round-cornered cube of milky, green-hued emerald.
This was his source stone, his inheritance, passed down from generation to generation of master empathers, the gem originally having been found, cut, and blessed by his remote ancestor Marmet, a crewman on the Lillith and an original slave of Gogol himself.
Castor clasped his hands together, the stone in the hollows of his palms. He felt the psychic warmth spread through his hands. This was the source stone, the concentrator and amplifier of those energies normally controlled by the mind alone. Its particular shape, color, and lattice structure when brought into contact with Ajaj flesh enormously increased the user's ability to use the power of Fane.
Now Castor squatted on his parlor floor, legs tucked beneath him, hands joined in front of him as if in prayer. He concentrated his attention first on freeing his body from the immediate effects of the spell. In a few minutes the power of the stone enveloped him. Urging his consciousness through the lattice of the gem, he reached outward in ever increasing circles until he located the source of the hex that sought to envelop him. Castor detected the huddled, chanting figure of the Gogol assassin on the ridge above the Ajaj city.
Emboldened by the power of the stone, he focused all his energies upon Rupert's form. In spite of the chill night air sweat had begun to bead the killer's forehead. Tendons strained in his arms, wrists, and legs. Clearly Rupert was aware that his power was insufficient to achieve his goal.
As long as Castor held the stone he would be safe, but how long could he do so? A few hours? Perhaps a day or two? Even if he survived he could not spend his days in hiding with the stone always within easy reach. If nothing else it was dangerous to experience too long a contact with the gem. Its powers were great. Like fire it could burn as well as warm.
Perhaps a fast and sudden bolt of energy at the base of Rupert's skull or the muscles of his heart. Quick death and another deacon of evil down the well. Castor steeled himself to form the killing bolt, but in vain. His teachings were too strong, his empathy with life too great. He could not take a life, even one as corrupted as Rupert's. Instead he constructed a softer blow, one which would stun the sweating Gogol but no more.
From his crevice Rupert struggled, calling forth every particle of energy which his skill could attract, but all his talents were unable to breach the shield which had suddenly enclosed his victim. Rupert readied himself for another straining attack but was unable to complete his chant. Without warning a numbing daze overtook his mind, and he fell over like a stone.
With great care Castor assured himself that the assassin was truly unconscious. He then replaced the source stone, secreted all his treasures, and unbarred his door. Navigation was easy by the light of Dolos' full moon. He retraced his steps to the decision maker's home. It took several minutes for his calls and raps to bring a response from within.'
"Who is it? Who calls at this time of night?'
"It's Castor on an urgent mission. I must speak with Obron at once."
"It's late. Come back in the morning."
"This will not wait until morning. There's a Gogol killer in the hills above our homes."
A moment later a scrape of stone signaled the opening of Obron's door. Castor entered. Behind him the stone returned to its place. Obron and the other two members of her triad stood on the far side of the room, backs against the wall, a glowpod in each left hand and a knife, a spear, or a club in each right.
When the light was sufficient for Obron to make out Castor's features, the weapons were lowered and the decision maker came forward to greet her guest.
"Castor, I thought that we had finished the matter of the Gogols. What has happened to make you shake us from our beds at this time of night?"
"It appears, Obron, that your warning was most accurate. Tonight as I prepared for sleep a Gogol spell enveloped me. It was only with the greatest effort that I was able to overcome the assassin. For the time being he sleeps in a cleft at the top of the ridge. By the second hour he will awaken. A decision must be made before then."
"Castor, you put us all in a most unfortunate position. You offend our masters, and even when requested by your own brethren to cease these efforts still you persist. Now, having brought down the vengeance of our lords, you come to me for advice."
"Not advice, Obron. I do you the courtesy of telling you what is taking place. As for solutions, there are at least three:
"One, I can continue in the future as I have in the past, kill the Gogols who attack me and, sooner or later, die at their hands-"
"-And bring ruin to all of us in the bargain," Obron interrupted.
"To continue: secondly, I could dispose of the assassin who haunts me and flee to the east, seeking sanctuary with the Hartfords across the mountains."
"And again bring ruin on your brothers, for we all know the penalty which will be exacted against us if even one of us is so impolite as to shirk his duty to our masters and leave the village without their permission."
"Thirdly," Castor continued, "I can retract all that I have said, keep my protective spell strong, and at the same time admit the error of my ways. In this way the village, and perhaps even I myself, will be spared the ultimate penalty for disobedience.
"Before you offer your suggestions let me tell you that I have decided to take the third path. I hereby, now and formally, retract my suggestion that we should rise up as a group against the Gogols. It was foolish advice. None of us is skilled at war. Besides, I now realize that none of my fellows would stand with me."
"And…" Obron prompted.
"And I hereby agree to make no further statements with regard to our masters. Again, it would be a waste of time and breath. Further, I authorize and request that you consult with this assassin when he? awakes and tell him the news of my recantation and promises of good behavior."
"On the surface. Castor, your words are proper and correct. They warm my heart, yet, for some reason, they seem to contain a chill of obstinacy and sarcasm. You will obey your promises to the letter, of that I am sure. But I sense that your mind is in ferment, teeming with other plans against which you have made no oath. No, tell me nothing further-I do not want to know. I wish you fortune and health in whatever you do, but I warn you to be careful, for neither I nor any of your fellows are strong enough to stand between you and your fate."
At the conclusion of Obron's statement Castor bent his head, lower than a nod but not so deep as a bow, an implied admission of the truth of Obron's prediction. Castor turned on his heel, bent low upon entering the passage, and picked his way back to his own apartment.