Sorcerer's Moon

by Julian May

  There really was a Demon Seat.

  Orrion had insisted that it was his right to be the first to stand on the mountaintop and Bramlow agreed, so Corodon had no choice but to give in, muttering resentfully. While the others waited below, the Prince Heritor climbed the last few ells on all fours, then pulled himself upright on a kind of broken-walled natural terrace that comprised the summit. What he found caused him to shout in astonishment. ‘Bazekoy’s Bones! I don’t believe this. Come up and see, lads!’

  Bramlow and Corodon scrambled to the top and the three of them stood huddled together in the brisk wind. The nearly level area was partially covered with a thin layer of snow. The most abundant variety of rock round about them was grey granite; but there was also a sizable outcropping of nearly translucent mineral, bluish-white in color. Some large chunks of this had broken apart and fallen in a heap that bore a rough resemblance to a chair or throne.

  Corodon gave a whoop of delight. Before the others could stop him, he plumped himself down on the unusual formation. ‘Futter me blind – it’s real! A Demon Seat! What say all three of us beg a miracle? I know what I’d ask: Let me be Prince Heritor in place of Orry. I’ll gladly wed Princess Hyndry. They say she’s a fine lusty wench for all that she’s a widow, and older.’

  ‘Coro, you prattling fool!’ The novice dragged his brother down and flung him into the snow. Corodon uttered a half-hearted curse.

  Orrion helped his aggrieved twin back onto his feet. ‘Let him be, Bram. He meant nothing by it. It’s only his bit of fun.’

  Vra-Bramlow knew better; but he swallowed his indignation and growing sense of unease and squinted up at the clouds. They had thickened and the sun had dropped halfway to the horizon, resembling a disk of dull white vellum against a murky background. ‘We can’t stay here long. Do you still want to do this, Orry?’

  The Prince Heritor drew in a breath. ‘Yes. Tell me how.’

  While Corodon crouched in a sheltered niche, munching sausage and drinking from the wine flask, Bramlow explained the simple conjuration procedure.

  ‘Stand by the seat and place one hand on it. Close your eyes. Try to clear your mind of all distracting thoughts. Assume an attitude of childlike humility and reverence, as a worthy petitioner of the Sky Realm should.’

  Corodon gave a muffled snort of laughter.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Bramlow barked. ‘Another sound from you, and I’ll make you wait downslope.’

  ‘What then?’ Orrion demanded. ‘How shall I summon the demons? Do I simply state my wish: Let me be able to wed Lady Nyla Brackenfield?’

  ‘Don’t call them demons. They might be insulted. If you must address them, say Lords of the Sky. The ancient writings were unclear as to the wording of the petition. I’d say, first name yourself, then speak out your plea naturally but briefly. Avoid any tinge of fear or disrespect. These beings must decide for themselves whether you’re worthy of their miracle.’ He folded his arms about Orrion in a brief embrace. ‘Good luck, my brother.’

  ‘And so say I also,’ Corodon called gruffly. ‘May you receive your heart’s desire.’

  Vra-Bramlow withdrew a dozen paces, dropped to his knees in the shallow snow, and bowed his head.

  Orrion approached the seat as if he were a man half-asleep. A sudden gust of cold wind hit his face like a knife-cut. He removed his gloves, placed his right hand upon the irregular milky slab that formed the back of the natural throne, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Great Lords of the Sky!’ He spoke firmly. ‘I beseech you to grant me a favor – if it should be your will, and if you find me worthy.’

  For a long time nothing happened. Then he felt a slow-growing warmth beneath the hand that rested on the frigid rock surface. One of his brothers gave a soft gasp of mingled fear and amazement. Orrion dared to crack open his eyelids for the merest instant and saw that the entire Demon Seat formation was aglow with an interior luminosity, at first dim as a will o’ the wisp, then increasingly bright. The heat beneath his right hand gradually increased. Before he could think what to do next, he felt a sudden thrust of pain smite his brain. Then there were voices speaking in unison, deep and inhuman, questioning him in an oddly hesitant manner.

  Orrion knew instinctively that they spoke to his soul and were inaudible to the others.

  WHO…WHAT…WHY?

  He tried to keep panic from his response. ‘Great Lords of the Sky, my name is Orrion Wincantor. I’m here to beg a miracle of you, if you please. I – I ask your help because I have nowhere else to turn.’

  HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT US? HOW DID YOU KNOW TO COME TO THIS PLACE?

  ‘My older brother read an ancient tract. It told how you had granted miracles to others many years ago.’

  YES…SOME OF US FREELY GAVE BOONS TO HUMANS. WE REMEMBER NOW. WE HOPED TO GAIN AN ADVANTAGE OVER THE EVIL ONES. THOSE WERE STRANGE TIMES IN THE SKY REALM AND ON THE GROUND. THE TACTIC WAS NOT VERY SUCCESSFUL.

  The demonic ramblings made no sense to Orrion. His hand, resting upon the stone, was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. ‘Do I have your gracious permission to ask my favor?’

  WELL…AT LEAST YOU ARE WORTHY, AS ARE THE OTHER TWO WHO COWER NEXT TO OUR CRAG…WHAT DO YOU WANT, ORRION WINCANTOR?

  ‘Great Lords of the Sky, if – if you will, grant me a miracle. Let me be able to wed my true love, Nyla Brackenfield, daughter to Count Hale Brackenfield, Lord Lieutenant of the Realm.’

  There was silence. His right hand grew ever more painful, but he dared not lift it. Finally the inhuman voices spoke again, seeming puzzled.

  WHY DO YOU REQUIRE A MAGICAL INTERVENTION MERELY IN ORDER TO MATE WITH YOUR CHOSEN PERSON?

  ‘I – Great Lords, I’m the High King’s son, heir to the throne of Cathra and the Iron Crown of Sovereignty. My father Conrig has picked another wife for me, in spite of my wishes. I must obey him for the sake of my princely honor.’

  The demons fell into a silence that seemed endless.

  Orrion forced himself not to cry out. The burning sensation in his hand continued to grow and was fast becoming unbearable. ‘Great Lords, if my request cannot be granted, then I humbly beg your pardon for having disturbed you. My brothers and I will depart from your mountain forthwith.’

  WE THINK THE REQUEST IS NOT IMPOSSIBLE. IT IS HARD FOR THE SKY REALM TO INTERACT WITH THE GROUND BECAUSE IT UPSETS THE GREAT BALANCE OF POWER, BUT WE ARE WILLING TO HELP YOU. YOU WILL PAY A GREAT PRICE FOR THIS FAVOR. ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT YOU WANT IT?

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  THEN LIFT YOUR RIGHT HAND FROM THE MOON CRAG AND HOLD IT ALOFT.

  For a moment, Orrion didn’t understand. Then he realized he was being told to let go of that awful piece of hot rock. ‘Yes! Oh, thank you!’ In a paroxysm of gratitude, he thrust his arm heavenward and dared to open his eyes.

  He saw blackness around him, and abundant diamond-sharp twinkling stars, as though night had inexplicably fallen and he hung suspended in the heavens high above the earth. A formless drift of multi-hued Light, that slowly took the shape of many mournful faces, shone among the familiar polar constellations. Then a blue flare blinded him as it engulfed most of his uplifted arm like a blast of silent lightning.

  He fell from the sky into nothingness, feeling no pain.

  ‘Orry! Orry, my poor twin, are you alive?’

  ‘He breathes. I can feel his heart beating. Draw closer to shield him from the elements.’

  Slowly, Orrion Wincantor, Prince Heritor of Cathra, opened his eyes. A folded cloak pillowed his head and another covered his body. He was chilled but not otherwise uncomfortable. A cold drizzle was falling. His brothers knelt beside him.

  ‘Take a sip of this brandy,’ Vra-Bramlow urged, lifting him so he could drink. The fiery spirit burnt his gullet, then settled in a glowing pool in his belly. ‘Can you move?’

  ‘Yes. Help me to sit up.’

  They assisted him. Orrion looked about and realized that they were still at the summit of Demon Seat and it was yet daytime – although th
e louring grey clouds now hung so close it seemed a man might reach up and touch them. Corodon was strangely excited, while Bramlow’s face was stiff with shock and his eyes red from weeping.

  Orrion managed a reassuring smile. ‘Have I been senseless long?’

  ‘Perhaps half an hour,’ Bramlow said. ‘We – we were very worried about you. The change in weather came very quickly. It might snow. We were wondering how to carry you to a more sheltered place when you finally came to yourself – thanks be to God!’

  ‘Well, I’m quite all right,’ Orrion said. ‘It seems I’ve survived my encounter with the demons.’

  ‘What were they like?’ Corodon asked eagerly. ‘We saw nothing of them, only a sudden dazzling light, and then you were lying on the rocks.’

  ‘After I begged my boon, I found myself afloat in a dark sky. I saw a multitude of ghostly faces glowing among the stars –’

  ‘Zeth save us!’ Bramlow exclaimed. But he bit off the words he would have said next, not wanting Orrion to know that he’d very likely conjured the evil Beaconfolk, and said only, ‘Were they fearsome things?’

  ‘Not really. They seemed almost bewildered that a human being would call upon them. But I stated my request boldly, as you advised, and they asked if I was sure I wanted it. I said I did. There was a great flash of blueish light, brighter than the sun, and I remember nothing more.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose there’s naught left to do but wait to see if my miracle will be granted. Just help me to my feet, lads. We should get going.’

  ‘Are you in pain, my brother?’ Corodon asked.

  ‘Not at all. I feel healthy as a horse.’

  ‘Orrion –’ Fresh tears sprang into Bramlow’s dark eyes and he gave a wordless cry before turning his head away, unable to speak further.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ the Prince Heritor said in alarm.

  His twin regarded him with a strange expression. ‘Brother, your miracle has already occurred, but not in the manner that you might have wished.’ Slowly, he pulled open the blanketing cloak so that Orrion’s body was exposed.

  The Heritor looked down at himself and felt his heart lurch.

  Impossible! There was no pain – indeed, he felt as though nothing at all had happened. The sleeve of his heavy leather jerkin and the woolen shirt beneath had been burnt away to a point just below the right elbow; his lower arm and hand felt as normal as always…but they had apparently been rendered invisible. When his left hand probed the anomaly he felt a smooth stump of healed flesh and bone at the end of his truncated right arm.

  ‘Gone,’ he murmured, transfixed. ‘Yet it seems as though it’s still there. I’ve heard of men losing a limb in battle expe-riencing a like phenomenon. Odd, isn’t it, lads?’

  ‘His mind wanders,’ Corodon said. ‘Poor devil.’

  ‘Don’t you understand what the cursèd demons have done to you?’ Bramlow cried in a voice choked with horror. ‘They have taken your sword-arm, Orry! By the laws of our kingdom – and Didion as well – such a wound makes you ineligible for the throne.’

  ‘You’re no longer Prince Heritor, twin brother.’ Corodon’s face was suffused with a terrible exultation. ‘I am.’ His gaze flickered and he looked sidelong at Bramlow. ‘Not our royal father, nor King Somarus, nor anyone else can deny me. Isn’t that right, Bram?’

  The novice said nothing.

  Corodon turned back to Orrion. ‘You and Nyla are free to wed. I offer my heartfelt felicitations and wish you every happiness.’ He paused with a judicious frown. ‘It would be best, I think, if we explained matters to Father and King Somarus face to face, rather than breaking the news at long distance. What do you think, Bram?’

  The reply was curt. ‘I dare not windspeak such incredible tidings. No one would believe me.’

  On one level of his mind, Orrion felt an eerie detachment, as though he were watching some fantastic drama enacted by the palace players that had nothing to do with reality. On another level he was coolly rational. The ramifications of the demons’ action were clear and irrefutable, just as Coro had said. There could be no waffling on King Conrig’s part, no talk of Orrion learning lefthanded swordplay to evade the restriction.

  Corodon must be named Heritor.

  Coro? Impetuous, happy-go-lucky Coro become heir to the throne? The notion had never occurred to Orrion. The miracle he’d hoped for would have simply changed his father’s mind, so that he might marry Nyla and in time make her his queen. But now…

  Vra-Bramlow stood close to him. ‘I shall never forgive myself for this, Orry,’ the novice muttered. ‘Never.’ And he thought: What am I to do? If I tell Father the truth about Coro’s talent, the crown will pass out of the Wincantor family – to Beorbrook’s adopted son Dyfrig, or even to our wicked cousin Feribor Blackhorse!

  Orrion climbed slowly to his feet. His expression was still strange, even though his voice sounded calm. ‘I was willing to pay any price for my sweet love. I’ve paid, and I shall accept whatever penalty Father metes out to me – even banishment. All the blame is mine, Bram. You have nothing to reproach yourself for.’

  Vra-Bramlow shook his head. ‘Not true,’ he whispered, but could say no more.

  ‘We can never tell Father the exact truth of this affair,’ Orrion said. He was staring into the distance, as if contemplating some faraway event. ‘He’s a hard man, and I’ll not have him revenge himself on either one of you. We three must agree on a suitable fiction to explain my loss, and we must swear never to deviate from it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Corodon exclaimed warmly. ‘Bram’s the cleverest. He’ll think up a proper yarn for us to spin. And let’s not forget to plant the banner before we leave, as we planned to do.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Coro,’ Bramlow groaned.

  ‘I’ll do it for luck, if for no other reason.’ Corodon opened his pack, shook out the scarlet silk pennon of the Sovereignty with its four interlocked golden crowns (Conrig still claimed the overlordship of Moss, even though the Salka had conquered it), and began tying it to his own climbing staff. Bramlow and Orrion watched as he built a cairn of rocks behind Demon Seat and set about fixing the royal banner atop it.

  Orrion spoke quietly to Bramlow. ‘Can you bespeak a message to the Zeth Brethren in Cala Palace for me, or are we too far away?’

  ‘At this great height, I should be able to do it. No natural barriers impede my windspeech. What do you want me to say?’

  ‘The message is to be given to Lady Nyla. In my name, beseech her to hasten to Boarsden with all speed and meet me there, for the sake of our love. Ask that she also bring her parents, and that they travel with the greatest possible secrecy.’

  The novice frowned. ‘Orry, are you sure about this?’

  ‘She and I must be near one another as I confess my transgression to Father. If he spares my life, I mean to wed Nyla immediately. This is why she must bring her parents.’

  Deeply troubled, Vra-Bramlow said, ‘It might be better if we first meet Nyla and the Lord Lieutenant and his lady elsewhere than Boarsden Castle, so you have an opportunity to…prepare them beforehand.’

  ‘You’re right. Perhaps near the border, at Beorbrook Hold in Cathra?’

  Bramlow shook his head. ‘You’d never be able to conceal your disability from the earl marshal’s alchymists. They’d insist on examining the arm if we try to pass it off as a climbing injury that I’d already treated and bound up. We’ll be able to fend off your Heart Companions that way, but not real physicians…I have it – we’ll meet the Brackenfields at the Castlemont Fortress hostelry just across the pass in Didion. No one there will think it amiss if Cathran travelers keep to themselves. And it’s only a day’s ride from the fort to Boarsden.’

  ‘Very well. Bespeak the message, Bram, before Coro finishes.’

  A few minutes later, Prince Corodon climbed down from the moonstone outcropping, took his twin’s good left arm, and draped it over one of his shoulders. ‘That’s done. If any windsearcher should scry the mountaintop, the banner will
confirm that we were here. Now lean on me, Orry, and we’ll start down.’ He offered a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t be downhearted. Everything will work out for the best. This happenstance is strange beyond measure, but we can’t deny that it gives both of us our heart’s desire!’

  She had obtained a sheet of vellum scraped so thin it was nearly transparent, that might be folded into the most exiguous of hiding places and kept safe. From the desk drawer she took a silver inkwell and a crow-quill pen with a fine nib, so that her writing might be minuscule and take up the least possible room, yet still be be legible. These things she laid out just before midnight, after long hesitation deciding that the time had finally come.

  It was the most important letter she would ever write. If it were intercepted, it would surely be her heart’s death, though no man laid a hand on her. But if it reached its intended recipient, all her years of suffering would have been well spent.

  My dearest Dyfrig!

  This missive comes to you after what must have been a perilous journey, undertaken by my most faithful friend. I pray you to reward her and shield her from the retribution that would fall upon her if her rôle in carrying the letter to you were discovered by the Sovereign or his agents.

  The one who writes to you is your mother, Maudrayne Northkeep, once wife to Conrig Wincantor and former Queen of Cathra.

  I know you thought me dead, and there were many times when I despaired of my life’s continuing, so bleak has been my existence, deprived of pouring upon you the maternal love you deserve. How I longed to see and know you, to watch you grow and thrive, to share your joys and comfort your hurts as a natural mother should! My only solace was knowing that you had been given into the care of good people, and this enabled me to hold fast in spite of all hardship.

  I could not write to you earlier, whilst you were still a child. It was necessary to delay until you were an adult man grown, strong in health and mature in mind and character, able to understand and make wise use of the secrets I now entrust to you.