None So Blind

He recognized neither the knight and the woman nor the strange wraith with his mouth sewn shut, but there was little he could do about this for now. All he knew was that something was happening in Camelyn, something that bore watching.

The sorcerer walked over to the east wall of the room, where another of his most prize possessions was kept. It was a set of three robots which seemed almost indistinguishable from hawks unless one looked at them closely. The watcher automatons had built in Hespan by an art which had been zealously guarded. It had been a gift from Oberon himself. He could not send troops into Camelyn to investigate, as it would arouse too much suspicion and could be seen as a military action. Something more subtle would be required.

A small ring was attatched to the pedestal on which the automatons rested. He put on the ring and pressed the blood-red gemstone inlaid within it. The automatons whirred into life and the images they saw came into focus in Castellan's mind. He was quite proud of his training--it took a lot of resolution to be able to process the three images and interact with people simultaneously.

He closed his eyes and willed the automatons out of the window, and felt the wind on their banks as they soared off towards Camelyn.

After being found by the guard, Frederigo and Irena had been roughly shoved into a cart requisitioned from a peasant and were being taken off to Lord Mandragon, the mayor of Camelyn. Frederigo still was not sure that this was not a very sophisticated illusion. That he could truly have been sent back five hundred years in the past--which, from the language spoken by the soldiers and some of the names they used, would have to be the case. Frederigo had often listen wide-eyed to stories of the great men of this age, of Uric the Strong of Eitrak who slew the twelve-headed giant of Rhun, of Lord Atreides who founded the Adventurer's Guild, of the noble Saint Eusebius of the White Mountain, and above all Lord Martel of Heron, from whom his father claimed descent [20801], who died along with all his house in the battle of Vjorica. This did not seem like the age which had given birth to these heroes. He could not see it, but it stunk of sweat and horse dung just as much, if not more so, than the Camelyn in which he had lived.

Frederigo was still blind. It seemed as if the dragon's flame had blinded him permanently. He was not only lost here in this strange land but blind as well. Surely this was all an illusion. How could the Lord strand him in such a hostile land and take his very sight, leaving him less than a man, less than a warrior?

At least Irena had become a bit less overbearing. On the other hand, she almost seemed to pity him, which disgusted Frederigo more than anything else. He was a true knight of the realm, even if not of noble birth, and he was above pity. He admitted that he was a proud man, and had often been reminded that pride was a very dangerous sin with dangerous consequences. Perhaps he had given in to pride in thinking that he could even defeat the vile Lingwyrm when so many better than he had failed. Yet surely this was not fit punishment for even the worst of sins? He felt like crying, but knew that a knight would not cry.

Then, a strange feeling gripped Frederigo. The world around him came into focus, but he was not seeing it through his own eyes. He saw himself as just one small part of the view around him. He and Irena were in a wagon being escorted by a squadron of grubby, rough-hewn soldiers. And, floating nearby, staring at Frederigo, was a sunken-eyed pale wraith with its mouth sewn shut.

1. Yet as quickly as it had come, the vision faded away.

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