Swordmistress of Chaos by Robert Holdstock, Angus Wells

Now, what am I? A humble pilgrim en route to Quell to bend my knee to the Stone.’
    ‘Soon,’ replied Raven, ‘you must tell me what this stone is, that it calls for pilgrims. I’ve not heard of it before.’
    ‘Soon,’ smiled Spellbinder, ‘you shall see it for yourself. And it, you. Then you may learn a little more about your future.’
    He turned before Raven could ask a further question, and she followed him into the tavern, irritated and intrigued: it seemed that some great design unwove about her, revealing itself in small parts. She lusted to know the whole of it, yet simultaneously realised, intuitively, that it must come in fragments.
    What I can, I shall explain…
    Those had been Spellbinder’s words, and slowly, little bit by little, he had revealed things to her. Still, however, she felt that he kept much back; knew far more of her future—were that possible?—than he revealed. Certainly, she felt, he was guiding her into a particular path, steering her towards some destiny she knew nothing of. Though, still, she felt unable to argue against it; there was something in Spellbinder that compelled her to heed him, whatever his purpose. It was as though he held her entranced, bound round by the magic Argor’s men had hinted he controlled.
    What is he? she wondered, studying the broad back disappearing into the tavern, a bandit? Or something more? Is he from the Isle of Ghosts? Some sorcerer-priest who works his secret purpose on the world for his own strange ends, or what? No ordinary outlaw, he; that for certain. But what? What is he?
    Her thoughts were broken off by the smell of food and the goblet of wine Spellbinder thrust into her hand. He had chosen them a secluded table to the rear of the tavern, sheltered from the main hall by a cobwebbed pillar. The other occupants were mostly, it appeared, local tradesmen and merchants, a few soldiers, and the customary sprinkling of doxies. Two pilgrims attracted no more attention than the odd glance and a muffled laugh at their robes. Yet Argor had advised them well, for above the planking of the serving table, set carefully out of the reach of drunken customers, hung a shard of granite. It was no more than a chip from some larger block of alluvial rock, but it was polished so that it glistened green and blue in the candles’ light, the platinum chain suspending it from the low ceiling, shining palely silver above the duller gleam of the stone. A hole had been bored out to accommodate a silver ring, through which the chain was fastened, and a broad metal shade was mounted into the ceiling to protect the thing from smoke.
    Raven had never heard of the Stone of Quell, but when Spellbinder showed the tavern-owner a silver-ring surmounted by a tiny chip of rock, she began to realise its power. The woman backed away, her mouth opening in surprise as mumbled incantations fell from her lips. Then she came forward, taking Spellbinder’s hands in hers to raise them to her mouth. She kissed his fingers and back away, still mouthing incoherent prayers.
    Spellbinder turned to Raven, smiling: ‘We shall fare well here. Mistress Clara is a Stone-worshipper. She thinks me a priest of the sect; you, an acolyte.’
    ‘What is the Stone?’ Raven asked. ‘Are you a priest of the cult?’
    ‘The Stone,’ chuckled Spellbinder, cynicism tinging his words, ‘is a chunk from the nether end of a falling star. It came to earth some ninety years ago, and was hailed as a falling god. It stands, now, in Quell with a temple built around it, where people can go to worship a piece of senseless star-rock. There is no more power in it than you’ll find in a corpse; but legends are easily built, and people like to believe what they will.
    ‘So, the priests grow fat on the donations of the worshippers, and wanderers like us find friends in falsity. Something is afoot in Lyand and I must know what it is; being a pilgrim to the Stone is as good a reason as any for being here.’
    ‘But