So. A wizard’s soul gone out from the body in tangible form.

In the dim Frankish forests, Sigebert’s people knew of such things, for despite his Latin education and manners, Sigebert One-ear of Metz was a German: a Frank. His own people called this sort of sorcerous messenger Sendings, or fylgja. He could not doubt that this owl was real; Lucanor’s fylgja.

Lucanor.

The name was strange to him. Greek, was it not? No matter; the names of Cormac mac Art and Wulfhere Skull-splitter were very, very familiar indeed. Pirates. Too recently, whilst they sought to dispose of their sword-won gains ashore, Sigebert had acted in his official capacity as representative of the king. He sought to take them into deserved custody. Was then that a sword in the hand of one of their men had butchered his face.

“Be sure that I will act,” he promised, who had been called the Favoured, for his good looks, since he was first able to walk. No more.

Laughter?

I am sure that you will not! In the light of day you will believe that none of this occurred, and put it from your mind. You are not the Count of Nantes, nor will you go to him with a tale so doubtful. The more fool you!

Sigebert gritted his teeth and his nostrils flared in an angry breath. He’d like to meet this Lucanor as a man, and see how sneery he was then!

His visitor saw. Despite its haughty tone, the thing that was Lucanor knew well that it might need this Frank for an ally. As chief customs assessor of Nantes, Sigebert held some power, and was well informed of all goings and comings within the city. More, he hated the huge Danish pirate and his dark henchman even as Lucanor did. Yet Lucanor’s physical body lay far indeed from northward Nantes. It had not been possible for him to travel so far, swiftly enow to give Sigebert this warning in the flesh. Nor would he place himself physically in the power of this clever villain until he had shown the Frank his value.