Sorcerer's Moon

by Julian May

  The earl marshal said, ‘But can they be sure that the bear wasn’t brought down by others of its kind, or by some human hunter? This so-called tooth might be naught but a primitive weapon of some sort, made of something like obsidian.’

  ‘The expedition guide is a Didionite fur-trapper,’ Stergos said, ‘the most experienced man Prince Dyfrig could hire in Timberton, where men of that stripe congregate. This fellow is adamant that the bear was killed by something called a Morass Worm, a sort of dragon without wings that was thought to have gone extinct centuries ago. The worms are intelligent – and they possess talent, just as the Salka do.’

  Conrig let loose a sharp obscenity. ‘Giant worms? Dragons? Have they all lost their minds? Are we supposed to believe a tale spun by an ignorant Diddly stump-jumper?’

  ‘Sire,’ said the earl marshal, ‘something caused the Salka army’s lighting advance to slam to a halt over a moon ago. It wasn’t the terrain. They had a clear corridor through the morass: wetlands and rivers and lakes, perfect for such creatures. They could have reached the valley of the Upper Malle if they’d kept moving, and would have caught Didion’s forces flatfooted before troops from Cathra or Tarn could reinforce them. Luckily for us, the brutes stopped dead in their tracks. We’ve speculated about some unknown disease decimating their ranks. But they didn’t withdraw at the end of Thunder Moon, when they first stalled, so that explanation doesn’t hold up. Dyfrig’s does.’

  The king’s jaw muscles worked. He said, ‘And you, Gossy? What do you think?’

  ‘What Prince Dyfrig says is logical,’ said the Royal Alchymist. He added with enthusiasm, ‘And what a wonderful stroke of fate it is! The Salka are all but defeated. We won’t have to fight them in that hellish bog country. You can announce the great news to Somarus and the generals and the Tarnian Sealords at supper tonight. Our warriors – all of the Sovereignty’s warriors – can go home for the winter.’

  Conrig thought: And I shall not lead Blenholme’s army against the inhuman foe after all! The momentous battle that might have solidified our uneasy political unity is once again postponed…

  Aloud, he said, ‘The Salka withdrawal must be verified before we allow the troops to disperse. This apparent retreat might be only a feint. I’ll announce that the findings of Dyfrig’s party are only preliminary – but very hopeful.’

  Beorbrook sighed. ‘I suppose that’s wise, sire.’

  ‘If numbers of Salka are retreating into the sea, the fact can perhaps be confirmed by a Tarnian sloop or two carrying windsearchers along the north coast. The High Sealord must order boats out from Ice Haven at once.’ Conrig addressed the Royal Alchymist. ‘Gossy, I want you to contact the windspeaking Brother who accompanies Dyfrig. Order the expedition to return to Boarsden immediately.’

  ‘They’re already on their way. But even coming at breakneck speed with little sleep and many changes of horse, it might take them four or five days to get here.’

  ‘They are to bring with them both the Didionite guide and the alleged tooth, along with whatever other evidence they may have collected concerning these Morass Worms.’

  ‘My talent isn’t strong enough to bespeak Vra-Odos directly right away,’ Stergos said to his brother. ‘Even though I am a Doctor Arcanorum with a fair windspeaking facility, Prince Dyfrig’s party is too far distant to hear my unfocused windhail. I must wait until they are closer – or until Vra-Odos calls out to me on a narrowly aimed thread of mental speech.’

  ‘Then see that you keep your mental ears well pricked!’ the king said curtly. ‘Let me know just as soon as you’re able to pass on my orders. And add another, which is even more important: Dyfrig is to make certain that the Didionite is closely guarded and tells no one about the presence of the Morass Worms. This charge I lay upon the prince with the full weight of my authority. It goes without saying that the Cathrans in the party will also be sworn to absolute secrecy.’

  Beorbrook was puzzled. ‘But, sire! Why?’

  ‘Fighting Salka monsters in raids along the shores of our island in recent years has tested the courage of our warriors to the utmost,’ Conrig replied. ‘Think, Parli! The Didionites, especially, are terrified of the moonstone sorcery wielded by the great trolls and their habit of devouring their foes slowly, while yet alive.’ A cynical smile twisted his mouth. ‘Who can tell what our worthy allies might do if they learned they might now also have to battle dragons to save our beleaguered homeland?’

  ‘Who can tell,’ the earl marshal said somberly, ‘what any of us would do?’

  FIVE

  ‘TO YOU, GIVER OF OUR MOST VALUED GIFT, FROM THOSE WHO REVERED YOUR LATE FATHER, WE SEND GREETINGS ON THE WIND AND ASK IN ALL FRIENDSHIP THAT YOU RESPOND.’

  There was no reply to the combined bespoken hail of the Salka Eminences. Their previous fifty-odd windshouts, sent out at regular intervals throughout a very long day, had been equally futile. The Four were gathered on the highest turret of Fenguard Castle in Moss. The sun was sinking into a billow of fiery clouds on the horizon above the Little Fen.

  ‘I think the depraved sea-squirt must be dead or gone away to the Continent,’ the Supreme Warrior said. ‘There’s been no news of him for years. We’ve blanketed the entire island with generalized windcalls and the accumulated pain-debt is giving me a hellish headache. I’m ready to pack it up.’ He twiddled the minor sigil that hung about his neck on a golden chain. The moonstone was a Longspeaker, and Ugusawnn and his colleagues had been using it jointly to channel their cautiously phrased salutation toward the human sorcerer Beynor, wherever he might be.

  ‘The Great Light was specific,’ the First Judge reminded the others. ‘Beynor is our best hope for gaining access to the Demon Seat Moon Crag. Would the Light have said this if the groundling sorcerer were dead?’

  ‘Who knows?’ The ancient Conservator of Wisdom had slumped into a heap on the parapet, spent by unaccustomed pain. ‘Colleagues, if you intend to continue, you must do it without me.’

  ‘Beynor may be alive and well,’ Master Shaman Kalawnn said, ‘but unwilling to speak to us for reasons of his own. He and Ugusawnn hardly parted in cordial circumstances. And the disappearance of Queen Ullanoth’s sigils from Rothbannon’s tomb before Beynor could turn them over to us as he’d promised must have been a terrible disappointment to him.’

  ‘As it was to us!’ growled the Warrior. Several of the queen’s sigils had been Great Stones, which the Salka coveted because they had none of their own – save for the paradoxical Potency.

  ‘Furthermore,’ the Master Shaman said, ‘if Beynor has been able to windwatch our activities over the years, he might well know that we were able to activate the Stone of Stones without his help – even though he cannot scry the sigil itself. He has thus been deprived of both of his most crucial bargaining assets. No doubt he believes that there can no longer be a fruitful business relationship between himself and the Salka –’

  ‘And now, when we call to him on the wind after ignoring him for so long,’ the Conservator interjected, ‘he might think we’re up to no good. Is this what you’re implying, Kalawnn?’

  ‘Precisely, Wise One. I believe we must modify our hail if we hope to get an answer: make it plain from the start that we have something to offer aside from empty protestations of friendship.’

  The Supreme Warrior said nothing, while the First Judge grunted in assent and refreshed himself with a cup of viscous ambergris cordial and a fat, lively crustacean.

  The Conservator of Wisdom said, ‘What do you suggest, Master Shaman?’

  Kalawnn touched his throat with a tentacle digit. The sigil inside his crop sent out a brief pulse of light. ‘The offer must be very appealing. Irresistible, in fact. Perhaps his own choice of several dozen useful minor sigils, first touched by the Potency to abolish their pain-link.’

  ‘Ahroo!’ the Supreme Warrior bellowed in outrage. ‘Several dozen stones? Once he learns of the limitation, he’ll demand scores of the things! Even hundreds! We already have too
few lesser sigils to ensure a decisive victory over the humans.’

  The Judge said, ‘Let’s not tell Beynor about the limitation on abolished sigils. Let him discover the catch when it’s too late, as the other human sorcerer did.’

  ‘I don’t like that idea at all,’ Kalawnn said. ‘What if he demands a demonstration before agreeing to work with us? No…honesty is the best course. If we can convince him of our good faith.’

  ‘We return to the thorny issue of trust,’ the Conservator said. ‘Why should he believe that we’ll keep our word this time – after Ugusawnn’s earlier mistakes? Realistically, I don’t see how we can make this plan work.’

  ‘There is something else we might offer Beynor,’ Kalawnn said. ‘Prior to the destruction of our Dawntide Citadel by the tarnblaze bombshells of the human warships, I studied a certain archival tablet – the one that Beynor was so interested in himself. While my scholarship was interrupted by the battle, I did manage to glean some interesting bits of data before we were forced to evacuate. To make a long story short, I believe that the Greatest Stone might be capable of annulling Beynor’s curse directly, making it possible for him to use sigils once again in the normal way. He might already know this!’

  ‘A lengthy logical jump,’ the First Judge observed, frowning. ‘And one the groundling conjurer might prudently hesitate to make.’

  ‘Not if he already knows the proper conjuration procedure, ’ said Kalawnn. ‘It might well have been written down on a portion of the tablet that I was prevented from reading by the tumult of battle.’

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ the Judge said. ‘We could at least make the offer. What can we lose? Beynor might not even be alive…

  ‘Oh, very well.’ The Warrior spoke in a resigned rumble. He took a firm grip on his Longspeaker sigil. ‘Let’s unite our talents again.’

  ‘I’ll join with you for one last attempt,’ the Conservator said.

  After a brief consultation to get the wording right (for there was always a chance that such a broad outcry might be overheard by the wrong persons) the Four closed their enormous glowing eyes and sent forth a generalized shout on the wind.

  ‘TO YOU, GIVER OF OUR MOST VALUED GIFT, WE SEND GREETINGS AND OFFER THIS SINCERE PROPOSAL: ASSIST US IN A CERTAIN MATTER, AND WE WILL GRANT YOU FREE ACCESS TO THE GIFT, WHICH WE BELIEVE IS CAPABLE OF LIFTING YOUR DOLEFUL BURDEN. WE WILL ALSO GIVE YOU OTHER ITEMS OF GREAT VALUE AS A TOKEN OF OUR GRATITUDE AND ESTEEM.’

  The Eminences disengaged their minds and waited.

  Master Kalawnn found that he was holding his breath. Beynor was alive. He was certain of it. Over the years a feather-light, distant presence had invaded his sleep from time to time in the winter months – scrutinizing his dreams, asking him questions, attempting to exert subtle coercion that would carry over into his wakeful life. The Salka shaman had fended off the dream-intruder; but he knew it must have been Beynor, who had been an expert in that rarest of natural talents.

  ‘So answer us!’ Kalawnn broadcast his own silent entreaty to the strange, tormented human being who had almost been his friend. ‘We need one another, Beynor, and this time there will be no double-dealing, rudeness or condescension on our part. We will treat with you as an equal and share the power of the Known Potency if you play fair with us. At least let us explain what we want and show you what we have to offer.’

  Kalawnn listened, as did the others. And just as the sun descended behind the clouds, a gossamer thread of windspeech seemed to emanate from the vanishing solar orb itself.

  Hello again. If you have anything to say, be quick about it. I’m very busy.

  Before the advent of the Sovereignty pacified the unruly interior of Didion and made safe the Wold Road leading from Cathra to Tarn, Castlemont Fortress was the only reasonably comfortable refuge for travelers between Great Pass and Boarsden. Its guest facilities had once been primitive: a stonewalled enclosure at the foot of the fort’s knoll accommodated pack teams and their drivers, while simple bedchambers and a modest dining area located in the keep above served more fastidious guests.

  When Somarus Mallburn assumed Didion’s throne and accepted vassalage in the Sovereignty, the robber-barons and brigands who had infested the Wold with his tacit approval were largely put out of business. Traffic over the pass multiplied tenfold. As a consequence, the hostelry at Castlemont also expanded, welcoming ever-increasing numbers of travelers. Its shrewd castellan Shogadus, now elevated to the rank of viscount, became famous for his hospitality and grew exceedingly wealthy. It was his custom to greet personally and oversee the settling in of illustrious guests who were willing to pay a premium price for luxurious accommodations.

  Among these, arriving late on a certain afternoon in Harvest Moon, was a solitary wayfarer who claimed to be Master Lund Farfield, a lawyer journeying from Cala City to Didion’s capital of Holt Mallburn. He was a tall, slightly stooped man with hooded eyes and gaunt features that were sun-damaged and deeply creased. Silvery hair gave him a misleading appearance of middle age. Beneath the inevitable patina of mud and dust, his riding attire was sumptuous. He was also girded with a sword fit for royalty and rode a blood horse with a silver-studded saddle and bridle. The viscount and his chief steward Crick decided that the alleged lawyer must be a high-ranking Cathran nobleman traveling incognito – perhaps a court official on his way to the great ongoing Council of War at Boarsden Castle.

  ‘I would like the best quarters in your dormitorium,’ Master Lund said in a peremptory manner as he was greeted by the noble host. ‘Price is no object.’

  ‘Alas, messire!’ Viscount Shogadus was regretful. ‘Our finest suite has already been reserved for the three royal sons of the Sovereign of Blenholme, who are expected to arrive later this evening, along with their retainers.’

  Well, well! thought the guest, doing his best to preserve an expression of well-bred vexation. He said, ‘Most disappointing, my lord.’

  ‘However, we have another chamber, even more splendidly appointed than that reserved for the princes, even though it be a trifle smaller.’ Shogadus gave an ingratiating smile. ‘Since you journey alone, Master Lund, perhaps you’ll find it suitable. It is near to the rooms occupied by the Lord Lieutenant of Cathra and his family – high above the bustle of the inner ward and having a fine view of the countryside and the sunset.’

  ‘Show me,’ the visitor commanded. He thought: More and more intriguing! Why are all these distinguished Cathrans breaking their journey here on the same day?

  Accompanied by a house varlet who carried his saddlebags, the man who called himself Master Lund followed Lord Castlemont and the steward Crick to a chamber in the west tower of the fortress. It had glazed casement windows, a fireplace, thick Incayo carpets on the floor, a tester bed with down pillows and comforter, and its own private jakes.

  ‘It will do,’ Lund decided, then tipped the steward a silver mark and inclined his head politely to Castlemont’s owner. He ignored the varlet, who scuttled out after opening the window.

  ‘How long will you stay with us, messire?’ Crick inquired. ‘One night.’

  ‘There will be an evening meal for special guests in the great hall at the eighth hour,’ Shogadus said. ‘Or if you wish, a repast can be brought to you here.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure to join you at table, my lord. Thank you for all your courtesy.’

  Beynor locked the door when the others were gone, opened one of his bags, and took out a flask and a gilt cup. He had acquired his fine new mount, several changes of clothing, and accoutrements suited to his taste while passing through the great Cathran city of Beorbrook. As a sorcerer, he had no need to worry about money. It had been necessary for him to live modestly during the long years of searching for the lost sigils, so as not to attract unwelcome attention from officials in Elktor, but the time of deprivation was over. Things would be very different from now on.

  He sipped mellow old apple brandy and watched the sun descend in the hazy, yellowish sky. The Salka had finall
y stopped their incessant wind-yammering at him. Stupid brutes – apparently too chickenhearted to use the Potency to abolish sigil-pain even after Kalawnn had managed to activate the Greatest Stone. Perhaps they feared the Lights would exact some terrible vengeance if they were deprived of their vile treats!

  How much had their Master Shaman learned about the enigmatic sigil over the years? Obviously, Kalawnn was still ignorant of some of the stone’s secrets (as was Beynor himself). The sorcerer’s imperfect oversight of Kalawnn’s dreams had confirmed that years ago – along with the inconvenient fact that the Salka’s greatest shaman now kept the Potency secure inside his own gizzard. Kalawnn thought that it had bonded to him alone, just as other activated sigils did, and could be touched by no other person.

  But Beynor knew that the stone had not bonded to the Salka Master Shaman. The Potency was unique in many ways. Once it had been brought to life, it was immortal and it bonded to no one; any person who knew its manner of working might handle and command it. The one who had made it over a thousand years earlier had intended it as a tool for good; but he had never activated the Stone of Stones, since he came to realize that it could just as readily be used for evil.

  As Beynor was well aware, even though he’d long since given up hope of getting his hands on it.

  He had been mildly curious when the Eminent Four began calling to him on the wind earlier in the day, but not so curious that he would have risked a reply. Kalawnn, for one, was adept enough to follow a bespoken windtrace back to its source. Beynor was not sure whether any Salka could scry him at long distance and read his lips. He doubted it. Still, it would be unwise to let them know his whereabouts until he found out what they were up to.

  He had scried their army in Didion as soon as he crossed Great Pass and the overview of the Green Morass became more or less clear to his superlative windsight. The sight of the monsters’ precipitate retreat puzzled him even more than news of their earlier invasion had. Although the Salka were very effective water-fighters (being able to breathe through their skins as well as through lungs, they could remain submerged indefinitely), Beynor had not thought them capable of such a large-scale military action on land. Piddling border raids or coastal smash-and-grabs were more their style. Those had been going on sporadically for years.