What did that make him now?
Spider’s Fort had been built over the ruins of another town, thick stone walls raised on a low hill to make it a fortress. So many old ruined walls wandered out onto the grassy land around that the brooding watchtowers and massive walls did give it the look of a many-eyed spider nesting at the center of its web. There were many more soldiers here, and even a camp set up outside the walls on flat ground extending out to the southeast: circular pavilions of white cloth dyed a pale gold under the light of the setting sun. Soldiers were driving stakes into the ground at an angle along the east-facing slope, like a defense against cavalry.
“Do you think they have the Holy One here already?” Maklos grinned. “I can sneak in along the old stone walls and get a look inside.”
“No, I must go,” said Agalleos. “When I wasn’t more than Maklos’ age, I spent a season here as a soldier.” He spat, as though ridding himself of a bad taste. “Even then, we were losing the war. The Cursed Ones spread their net wider every year. So far have they come.”
“Nay, I must be the one to go.” As the other two began to protest, Alain lifted a hand. “I can understand their language. Can you?”
“Truly,” admitted Agalleos, “I can’t understand their speech.” Maklos crossed his arms and grimaced, hating to miss his chance for a daring raid.
“Even if I can’t get close enough to see into the fort, I can at least hear the gossip of the sentries. What do you know of these old walls? Is there one route better than the others?”
“Along the northern slope you’ll find the ground dug through with old trenches and fallen walls. You can move in close, this way.” Agalleos drew in the dirt with a stick. “The fort’s walls thrust out like a ship’s prow at the narrow end of the hill.” He scraped a deep line diagonal to the walls he had outlined. “Move up along this cleft. To your left you’ll see an old terrace that used to be an herb garden. There was an old stair there that was hidden by the queen’s magic before the soldiers had to abandon the fort. In the corner of the garden, where three walls come together, find the carving of a lion woman. This is the sign that will open the weaving and let you through.” He showed Alain how to place his hands and press them over the mouth and eye of the carving. “Go up the stairs. There’s a hidden place where you can see into the fort.”
“So be it,” said Alain.
He ate, and drank, and fussed over the hounds, waiting for nightfall. He took only his staff, a knife, and a water pouch, refusing the shield, spear, and sword offered to him by Maklos. “The staff is the only weapon I use,” he said, “and a shield will only get in my way.”
Agalleos slipped a small stoppered bottle out of his pouch, opening it. “We have little enough, but this is a good time. Open your left hand.” He poured oil onto Alain’s palm. “Now rub this into your face from right to left, saying these words: ‘Let the swift god Erekes place his hand upon my brow and make me invisible to all my enemies.’”
Alain hesitated. The oil smelled faintly of lilies but also of something tart and displeasing.
“This is men’s magic,” said Agalleos. “Go on.”
Starting at his ear, he rubbed the oil into his face while murmuring the words. Oil tingled on his lips, but he felt no different.
Night brought the waxing crescent moon, already low in the west but bright enough together with the light of the stars that Alain could creep away from their hiding place out onto the open ground. The ground was mostly flat, but here and there pocked with depressions and rubble, easy enough to move through without too great a risk of being seen whether or not the magic worked. Fires burned on the walls above. He heard the noises of camp, men singing about ships and the sea, in odd contrast to the dust sliding under his feet, the hanks of dry grass his hands closed over at intervals, and thick patches of fennel rising up before him.
Once he had to lie low as a patrol strolled past. Maybe the spell hid him, or perhaps only the shadows did. He rose as soon as they were safely away and continued on in a crouch, hurrying from the refuge of a ditch to the lee of a fallen wall, scraping his knees on ragged stone, smelling the parched odor of the earth. The ground rose steeply beneath his feet. Above, torches burned, the edges of their flaring light obliterating the nearby stars. Figures moved along the walls, but their gazes were turned farther out, across the open ground to the concealing woodland beyond.
He scrambled up through the rubble of tumbled walls that had once ringed this lower slope of the hill. In an odd way it was as though those old sharpened senses, borrowed through dreams from Stronghand, remained with him. Grass sighed under the touch of the wind. Insects burrowed. An owl passed overhead, calling a warning that no man but he could hear: “Beware! Beware!”
