Sorcerer's Moon

by Julian May

  Four crowns.

  So the whoreson Conrig Wincantor still claims the fealty of Moss! the sorcerer thought, with a brief pang of fury. Little did he know that the true Conjure-King rode but a few leagues distant from him, carrying the Sovereignty’s downfall in a fine new belt-wallet…

  Beynor entered Boarsden Town at its South Gate and began inquiring for rooms at superior inns – only to be met with polite regret, indifferent shrugs, and outright derision. Even the more modest places were full. Every bed in every hostelry was taken by the hangers-on who catered to or battened upon a great army: purveyors of food, drink, fodder, clothing, and hardware; itinerant entertainers and gamblers; pedlars of quack nostrums and sundries; and every manner of whore from elegant perfumed courtesans who might grace the bed of a lord to sad and aging drabs who had knocked out their front teeth in hopes of selling low service to the undiscriminating.

  ‘Well, here’s a pretty state of things,’ Beynor murmured, riding slowly along the River Road after seeking in vain a bunk aboard one of the vessels moored at the docks. ‘The mighty sorcerer arrives ready to subvert the government of the realm. But it seems probable that he’ll have to spend the night rolled up in his fine new cloak in the yard of a ratinfested dive, fending off vermin and unwelcome bed-fellows with his naked Sword of State! Of course, I could smite some poor devil with my magic and force him to yield up his bugridden palliasse. Or –’

  His longsighted gaze lifted to the Didionite fortress that loomed at the bend of the river. The red flag of Sovereignty flew from Boardsden Castle’s highest towers and turrets, signifying that Conrig Ironcrown was in residence. Surrounding it on lower staves were the argent banner of Didion with its rampant black bear, Tarn’s quartered ensign of azure and snow-white, emblazoned with longships, and the tusked-boar standard of the castle’s owner, Duke Ranwing.

  ‘But not a trace of my poor nation’s moss-green pennon and golden swan,’ Beynor observed, caressing the heraldic bird whose wings embraced the great emerald enclosed within the gilt pommel of his sword. A slow smile spread over his face. ‘But perhaps my invitation to the betrothal ceremony only went astray! I think I’ll go and find out.’

  Turning his horse, he retraced his route to the city gate and set out for the castle.

  Vra-Dombol ushered the three Cathran princes into Stergos’s sanctum, quietly set out wine flagons, pitchers of ale, and platters of bread, cheese, and fresh fruit, then withdrew.

  ‘Lord Stergos, venerable Doctor Arcanorum and dearest uncle, our fond greetings.’ Vra-Bramlow bowed low, clasping the gammadion amulet that hung from his neck in a gesture of ritual respect while the twins hung back with uncomfortable smiles. ‘On behalf of my brothers, I thank you for agreeing to see us privily, even before we pay our respects to the King’s Sovereign Grace and our dear mother.’

  ‘Please, please, boys – be at ease.’ The anxiety of the Royal Alchymist was all too evident. ‘Doff your cloaks and hats. Toss them anywhere. There’s water and a laver if you wish to wash your faces and hands. And for God’s sake, take a little to eat and a sup of wine or ale.’ He frowned as he studied Prince Orrion more intently. ‘Nephew – what’s wrong with your arm? Why is it in a sling?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it, Uncle. But first, some of your wine. I’m dry as ashes after our long ride.’

  Corodon declared, ‘As for me, my back teeth are afloat with a more urgent need! Which way to the necessarium?’

  There were laughs as the royal youths relaxed and made themselves at home, eventually sitting together with Stergos at the round table and making nervous small talk.

  But finally Orrion rose to his feet, shedding the sling that had supported and concealed most of his lower right arm. ‘Uncle, let’s get to the heart of the matter with no more ado. We’re here because of a woeful thing that has befallen me.’

  He began to divest himself of the disguising gauntlet and the bandages beneath it. As Stergos uttered an involuntary cry of horror, the prince displayed the now well-healed amputation.

  ‘Oh, merciful God,’ the alchymist moaned. ‘How did you suffer such a terrible loss?’

  ‘We three will swear it came about through misadventure whilst climbing a mountain,’ Orrion said, with a pointed glance at his brothers. They nodded. ‘But the truth – which is known only to us and to the dear woman I love with all my heart and soul, Lady Nyla Brackenfield – is more awful. I leave to your judgment whether the King’s Grace should be told the whole of it.’

  He went on to narrate at length the ill-starred scaling of Demon Seat and the motivation therefor, finally pausing to take a swallow of wine at the point where he began to beg a miracle of the Sky beings.

  ‘This scheme was irresponsible beyond belief!’ Stergos cried. He turned to Bramlow. ‘Didn’t you realize that these so-called demons must surely be none other than the Beaconfolk?’

  ‘No.’ The novice Brother of Zeth hung his head. ‘Not at first. I was an ignorant fool, my lord, thinking only that the magical favors supposedly vouchsafed to others on the mountaintop might possibly have happened, and if Orry petitioned the demons, he and his sweetheart might somehow be able to marry.’ He looked up with haunted eyes. ‘I confess that I suspected the truth about the uncanny forces he was about to invoke when we first saw the actual Demon Seat – the throne formation made of moonstone. I am aware, of course, that sigils carved from that mineral are used to channel Beaconfolk sorcery. Yet…I couldn’t bear to discourage Orry from seeking his miracle.’

  ‘And it was granted,’ the Prince Heritor said evenly. ‘Bram is not to blame. The fault is mine, for being determined to flout Father’s command and my princely duty. And I solemnly declare, Uncle, that I would do it over again even if I knew the consequences.’

  Stergos heaved a great sigh. ‘Tell me in detail what the demons said to you, and everything you remember about the vision.’

  Orrion obeyed, emphasizing the non-malignant aspect of the Sky beings and their apparent hesitation and confusion. ‘They even tried to dissuade me, warning that I’d pay a great price.’

  ‘Beaconfolk did that?’ Stergos was taken aback. ‘But –’ His expression changed to one of wild surmise. ‘I wonder. Oh, yes, I wonder! I’ll have to consult with – with someone wiser than I in high thaumaturgy to be sure of it. But it may be that your demons were not members of the evil Coldlight Army at all, but rather other supernatural Sky dwellers who are their enemies. Great Zeth – this is extraordinary!’

  Bramlow frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Orrion broke in. ‘Forgive me if I say that it matters not who the demons are, at least for now. What we’ve come here for is help in breaking this terrible news to our father.’

  ‘We can’t have him tossing poor Orry into durance vile,’ Corodon said with a merry chuckle. ‘Or banishing him to some lonely exile on the Continent. My brother must marry his Nyla – while I assume his duties as Prince Heritor and wed the roundheeled Widow Princess of Didion.’

  ‘Damn you, Coro!’ Vra-Bramlow exclaimed. ‘This is no matter for jest!’

  But the prince only helped himself to ale and a piece of cheese.

  Orrion said, ‘My twin speaks the truth. I would wed Nyla at once, if the King’s Grace permits it. She and her parents remain at Castlemont Fortress, awaiting word of my fate. But I fear Father’s rage at having his plans for me baulked might lead him to vindictive action against them as well as me. Do you see any way, Uncle, that the king’s temper might be softened?’

  ‘I must think,’ Stergos muttered. ‘Oh, lad – you’ve put a dreadful burden on me. But I love you. I love all of you as though you were my own children! Let’s spend some quiet time while I think matters over. Then I’ll leave you here and see what sort of mood my royal brother is in, and perhaps lay the groundwork for your confession. This is the hour when the king customarily takes his ease after conferring with his advisers. I’ll do my best for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle,’ said Orrion. He slu
mped in his chair. ‘If you are able, tell Father that I throw myself upon his mercy and acknowledge my sin and unutterable foolishness. I’ll accept whatever penalty he may demand.’

  Silence fell. It was broken at last by Corodon, whose face lit up as a sudden thought struck him. ‘All this dreary talk made me forget that I have a small gift for you, Uncle!’ He rummaged in his belt-wallet and extracted a wadded silk kerchief, which he carefully unwrapped. ‘I neglected to mention to you lads that I brought back souvenirs of our venture – proof that we didn’t imagine the entire mad escapade.’

  He placed two small objects on the table.

  ‘Bazekoy’s Blazing Ballocks,’ Bramlow whispered.

  Speechless, Stergos stared at the roughly walnut-sized chunks of translucent moonstone mineral gleaming dully amidst the leftovers of food and drink.

  ‘One for you, Uncle,’ Corodon crowed, giving the smaller of the specimens to the alchymist, ‘and one for me. Taken from the near vicinity of the Demon Seat itself!’

  ‘These could be very dangerous, Coro.’ With haste, Stergos thrust the gift into the depths of his robe and held out his hand. ‘You must let me keep yours locked away in a safe place as well. I’ll return it to you whenever you wish, of course.’

  The prince’s blue eyes twinkled roguishly…and also revealed a fleeting glint of something else altogether, which the Doctor Arcanorum was all too aware of. ‘Oh, I think not, Uncle. I bethought me to have the court jeweller polish and make a cap-bauble of the stone, or perhaps inset it into the hilt of a fine new dagger. Anyhow, I must keep it as a memento of a miracle. For who knows when I might require one of those myself?’

  Still beaming, Corodon looked from one appalled face to another. ‘What?’ he said in puzzlement.

  ‘He says he’s who?’the Sovereign muttered testily, glancing up at his agitated host, Duke Ranwing Boarsden. Barefoot and dressed only in linen smallclothes and a light wrap, Conrig had been reclining on a longchair in his warm sitting room perusing a many-paged report. More sheets of parchment lay scattered on the carpeted floor, together with several leather document cases. The low sun of late afternoon shone through an open casement window straight into the face of the duke, making the droplets of sweat on his high forehead glisten.

  ‘The man at the castle gate identifies himself as Conjure-King Beynor of Moss, unjustly deposed by his late sister Queen Ullanoth. According to him, he was exiled to the Continent for a score of years and only recently was able to make his way back to Blenholme. He lays claim to the vacant throne of his kingdom and asserts his right to declare himself your loyal vassal.’

  ‘Futter me blind!’ murmured the High King. ‘What manner of fellow is he?’

  ‘A thin man and tall, who perhaps was once very handsome of face. His features are now ravaged by the elements and deeply lined, but I think he may be younger than he looks. His hair is white and his eyes are black and piercing. His garb is travel-stained but very expensive, and he rides a fine blood horse with a magnificent saddle. But the thing that might best confirm his pretension is his two-handed sword – a kingly weapon if ever I’ve seen one. Its hilt is lavished with gold and inset opals, and the pommel is a golden swan enclosing a whacking big emerald. The blade is engraved with the names of every Mossland ruler from the fabled Rothbannon to Beynor himself, along with mottos and the like, written in our own language and also in another arcane tongue – which the fellow declares is Salkan!’

  Conrig grunted. ‘I never met Beynor face-to-face. I only know he schemed to deprive me of my crown, along with the traitorous whore’s-twatling who was once Cathra’s Royal Alchymist and who now serves as your kingdom’s Lord Chancellor.’

  Ranwing’s eyes slid away in embarrassment. ‘For what it’s worth, my liege, there are many in Didion who likewise have no great love for Kilian Blackhorse.’ An unpleasant little smile touched the duke’s lips. ‘Now including, I believe, King Somarus himself.’

  The Sovereign’s expression had gone darkly pensive. ‘As I recall, His Majesty of Didion attended Conjure-King Beynor’s calamitous coronation while yet a prince, along with his late brother Honigalus.’

  ‘That is so, Your Grace.’

  ‘Does King Somarus know about this strange new arrival?’

  ‘Not yet, sire. I tried to inform him, but he had given orders not to be disturbed. Our king is napping, gathering strength for the betrothal feast tonight.’

  Conrig uttered a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Too futterin’ bad about his beauty rest. Duty calls!’

  He climbed to his feet and shouted for his Lord of Chamber.

  ‘Telifar! Fetch me a more impressive houserobe and slippers and get rid of these documents. I’m expecting royal guests in a few minutes.’ And to Ranwing: ‘As for you, my lord duke, present my Sovereign compliments to King Somarus and tell him that I require his presence at once and will brook no refusal or delay. Explain what’s happened. Then go to my Royal Alchymist, Lord Stergos. Tell him to hasten here with all of the highly adept Brothers of Zeth he can muster, along with whatever magical apparatus is needed to fend off the most powerful malign sorcery.’

  The duke’s mouth dropped open. ‘Your Grace, I don’t –’

  ‘Just tell my brother what I said, curse you!’ Conrig bellowed.

  ‘Yes, my liege. Anything else?’

  ‘Bring this Beynor up here. Treat him well but keep him under guard in one of my anterooms – and for God’s sake don’t let Kilian Blackhorse or any of his lickspittle minions get near him. As soon as King Somarus arrives in my apartment, bring the mysterious visitor in to us.’

  Perspiring even more profusely, Duke Ranwing bowed and left the room.

  Viscount Telifar Bankstead, Conrig’s longtime personal attendant and Lord of Chamber, approached with a robe of scarlet-and-black samite and matching soft footgear. ‘Shall I send for refreshments, sire?’

  The Sovereign snatched the robe and slippers and began putting them on. ‘Not bloody likely…But wait! Just to be on the safe side, in case this knave is who he claims to be, roust out the castle seamstresses and have them whip up a Mossland flag as fast as they can. It must be ready before tonight’s feast. Nothing small, mind you, but a big silken banner with gold fringe, to match the other royal standards above the dais in the duke’s great hall. The flag is not to be put up until I give the command.’

  ‘I understand, sire.’

  ‘And tell the duke’s steward we may require another goodly chair at the high table tonight.’ Conrig’s mouth quirked in a satiric smile. ‘Maybe not too goodly a chair…

  Around noontide, the little maidservant Chelaire had appeared at the door of Maudrayne’s sitting room carrying a clothcovered tray. It contained food that she began to set out on a table near the west window.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Lady Mayda! But Master Vibifus commands that you be served your midday meal in your chambers today. And I know how much you were looking forward to your ride on the fells today, but I’ve been told to lock you in until sunset. There’s some sort of urgent business afoot. I can’t say what, I’m sure! House-carls are running about like scalded curs, packing coffers and panniers, and a squad of guardsmen went off down the track to town before first light, armed to the teeth. I asked Captain Grallon what was happening, if Lord Tinnis was finally coming for a visit or what, but he only called me a rude name and said I’d know soon enough, and then –’

  ‘Very well.’ Maudrayne broke into the maid’s chatter. ‘Do me a great favor, though, Chelaire: come and whisper through the door to me when you do discover what the rumpus is about.’

  The girl bobbed a curtsey. She was only thirteen, the youngest of several orphan girls from Beorbrook Town taken into service at Gentian Fell Lodge. The other house servants were mostly married couples, while the guards were drawn from Tinnis Catclaw’s home fief many leagues to the south. The warriors lived in a small barracks adjacent to the lodge. They were handpicked by the Lord Constable for trustworthiness. But living in such i
solation was a hardship for lively men, and with Lord Tinnis’s long absences this summer, discipline had faltered, allowing Rusgann to slip away. No one in authority had yet questioned Maudrayne about her friend’s mysterious three-day absence, which struck her as ominous…

  ‘I’ll come at once if I learn anything, Lady Mayda. Is there aught I can fetch for you before you’re shut in? Books or more wine, perhaps?’

  Maudrayne shook her head, glancing at the ample repast. ‘No. I have all I need.’

  When the little wench was gone and the key turned, the princess left the table and the untouched food and went to her bedchamber, which overlooked portions of the winding track leading south toward the massive border fortress of Beorbrook Hold and the large town around it. Nothing unusual was to be seen out there on the rugged slopes – no riders coming or going. Unfortunately, the lodge’s walled courtyard was out of sight from any of her windows, as were the stable and the barracks.

  ‘The guards who left at dawn must have gone after Rusgann,’ Maudrayne decided, frowning. ‘Captain Grallon probably forced the door to her room at long last and found her gone. And if the wizard Vibifus personally commanded my confinement without a stated reason, he can only have acted on the orders of the Lord Constable himself.’

  There was nothing particularly unusual about Maudrayne being locked in her room. During her years of exile at Gentian Fell, she had become used to being sequestered whenever supply-trains from Beorbrook or certain visitors arrived at the hunting lodge. But explanations had always been given freely before, and the length of her detention seldom exceeded a couple of hours.

  ‘Well, all I can do is wait,’ she said to herself, returning to the sitting room and the dinner. ‘And pray that my dear Rusgann is still free to carry my letter.’

  After eating, she read until mid-afternoon. Chelaire did not return. Feeling ill at ease, the Princess Dowager stood for some time at an open window, listening. Indistinct sounds of speech came to her on the breeze. She heard a farrier hammering a horseshoe, and mules squealing – which probably meant they were being heavily loaded. Once there was a harsh male voice shouting filthy curses as a female wept piteously.