There was a long moment of silence as the mystic looked desperately around, the dark face ashen with fear.

“He… he is in the north wing… in the tower,” the answer was a whisper.

“If he has been harmed, mystic…”

Balinor turned away sharply, leaving the terrified man momentarily forgotten. Stenmin shrank away against one wall, gazing after the tall figure of the borderman. One hand came up nervously to stroke the small, pointed beard. Menion watched him, almost in pity, and then suddenly something clicked in his mind. An image flashed sharply-a memory of a scene he had witnessed several days earlier on the banks of the Mermidon north of the island of Kern as he had lain concealed on a small hillock overlooking a windy beachhead. That same mannerism-the stroking of a small pointed beard! Now he knew exactly what Stenmin was attempting to do! His face turned to a mask of rage and he started forward, brushing past Balinor as if he wasn’t even there.

“You were the man on the beach-the kidnapper!” he accused in undisguised fury. “You tried to kill me because you thought I would recognize you as the man who kidnapped Shirl-the man who turned her over to the Northlanders. You traitor! You intended to betray us all-to turn the city over to the Warlock Lord!”

Heedless of the cries of his companions, he rushed toward the now hysterical mystic, who somehow managed to evade his initial lunge and break away toward the cellar stairway. Menion was after him with a bound, the gleaming sword of his father raised to strike. Halfway up the stone steps he caught him, one hand jerking the dark form about as the man shrieked in terror. Yet the end did not come, for as the sword drew back and Menion held the maddened Stenmin tightly against the stone wall, the massive door to the ancient cellar suddenly swung open, the thrust of the pull slamming the ironbound wood back against the wall with a jarring crash. Framed in the entryway stood the broad figure of Palance Buckhannah.

XXIX

For a moment no one moved. Even the terrified Stenmin had gone limp against the cellar wall, his dark face staring blankly at the silent form that waited statuelike at the top of the ancient stairway. The lined face of the Prince was drained of color, and the eyes reflected a curious mixture of anger and confusion. Resolutely, Menion Leah met those searching eyes, his sword arm lowering slowly, his own hatred fading with the sudden turn of events. Their lives might all be forfeited if he didn’t act fast. Roughly he yanked Stenmin to his feet and threw him disdainfully toward the Prince.

“Here is your traitor, Palance-the real enemy of Callahorn. This is the man who gave Shirl Ravenlock to the Northlanders. This is the man who would give Tyrsis to the Warlock Lord…”

“My Lord, you’ve come just in time.” The mystic had recovered his wits enough to cut Menion off before any more damage could be done. He stumbled fearfully to his feet and rushed up the stairs, throwing himself at Palance’s feet and pointing down at the company of friends. “I discovered them escaping-I was running to warn you! The highlander is a friend of Balinor-he came to kill you!” The words were tumbling out of the man’s mouth in undisguised hatred as he groped at his benefactor’s tunic and raised himself slowly to his side. “They would have killed me-and then you, my Lord. Can’t you see what is happening?”