Sorcerer's Moon

by Julian May

  Shaking her head, she returned to her book, a favorite devoted to the natural history of the Dextral Mountains. It had been her pleasure during the sixteen years of her stay at Gentian Fell to gather specimens of every herb and wildflower in the vicinity, press them dry, then mount them on sheets of vellum with careful descriptions of their seeds and fruits and the sites where she’d found them. The book contained drawings of numerous plants; but Maudrayne had discovered many new ones, given them fanciful names, and attempted to group them with similar species.

  When she died, her last testament directed that her herbarium collection go to the Brethren of Zeth Abbey, who esteemed such things.

  When I die…

  Up until this year, when Dyfrig came to man’s estate, she had been content to remain silent in her exile at Gentian Fell, knowing that her good behavior assured her son’s safety. Conrig would stand by his bargain, reluctantly made with the Tarnian High Sealord, if he believed she was dead and Dyfrig beyond her influence; and Tinnis Catclaw would preserve her life so long as she assuaged his illicit desires.

  But the situation could not remain static. Once Dyfrig became an adult, he deserved to know the truth and mould his own destiny. He was the first-born male, with a claim superseding that of Conrig’s other sons. Knowing his birthright, he must be allowed to claim it if he chose. She had debated with herself long and hard before composing the letter. Even now she had lingering doubts about the wisdom of entrusting it to Rusgann rather than trying to carry it to Dyfrig herself. But she was closely watched, while her friend was not –

  Hist! Was that a muleteer’s command for his animals to go forward?

  She hurried to the bedchamber window and gasped at what she saw. At least fifteen mules – all that had come up to the lodge only a few days ago loaded with provisions, plus the two or three beasts kept for work about the place – were proceeding down the track, carrying huge packs and canvas-wrapped coffers. When they were out of sight, people on horseback appeared: the steward and his wife, male and female servants riding pillion, with stuffed saddlebags and bundles hung about their mounts. Some looked back over their shoulders as they departed and more than one woman was weeping.

  ‘God’s Blood!’ Maudrayne whispered. They’re abandoning the place. All of them.’

  The mercenary Didionite wizard called Vibifus proudly sat his fine grey mare, cowled in black. The remaining guardsmen, their weapons and shields glittering, brought up the rear of the cavalcade. The only person who seemed to be missing was the Captain of the Guard, Grallon Haytor, a burly fellow with a forbidding mien, whom Maudrayne detested because he killed hares, marmots, and other small game profligately with his crossbow, then left them where they lay.

  Swiftly, she went to the door of her apartment and began to pound on it with her fists, shouting for someone to let her out. When nothing happened, she took an oaken foot-stool and smote it against the door, making a great racket no one could fail to hear.

  This proved fruitless as well, so she dashed to the window and began to scream. ‘Help! Don’t leave, I’m still here! Come back!’

  Most of the riders were out of sight. A few guardsmen at the rear of the train seemed to cringe at the sound of her voice but continued on without looking back.

  Then she saw Grallon riding away. He lashed his horse about the head with the reins trying to hurry it, even though the steep track made anything but a walking pace hazardous.

  ‘Grallon! Stop, you filthy whoreson!’ she howled. ‘Am I being left to starve? Stop, I say!’ But in a few moments he had disappeared.

  Furious and frightened, she began to gnaw her fingernails. Now what? Her rooms were in a wing of the timbered lodge that overhung a seventy-foot drop onto jagged rocks. There was no other exit but through a window. So that was the way she would go!

  What might serve as an improvised rope to effect her escape?

  There were silk brocade draperies at both windows, and silk, she seemed to recall, was extremely strong. Tester hangings on her opulent bed were fashioned of the same material. And she had silk sheets. The fabric would have to be cut into strips, then firmly knotted.

  ‘Curse it!’ Her table-knife, the only blade they let her have, was a dullish thing without a point, fit only to cut cooked meat and soft fruit. It was useless for slicing the heavy silk. ‘I’ll have to use my embroidery scissors,’ she said to herself, ‘although they’re tiny things and it’ll take forever to do the job. But I will get out of here! I’ll walk the thirty leagues to Beorbrook Hold. If Dyfrig’s not there, I’ll find sanctuary with Earl Marshal Parlian’s widowed daughter-in-law, Countess Morilye. Being Tarnian herself, she never despised me as the court ladies of Cathra did.’

  She fumbled for her sewing basket, a thing she rarely used, in truth, because most womanly arts were not to her taste. The small scissors were there, with blades only an inch long but quite sharp. She climbed onto the stool and began to haul down the first pair of drapes.

  ‘Faugh! So much dust –’

  And then she stopped, frozen. What was that smell? The brocade slipped from her fingers. She hopped off the stool and approached the stout outer door, eyes wide with dread.

  Thin wisps of smoke seeped from beneath it.

  ‘Damn you to the Hells of Fire and Ice, Tinnis Catclaw!’ she cried, then burst into tears of rage.

  It made no difference whether Rusgann was still free or not. The Lord Constable had clearly decided to take no chance that the identity of his secret prisoner might be revealed. Above its sturdy stone foundation, Gentian Fell Lodge was built mostly of wood. If the iniquitous Captain Grallon had done his work efficiently, the place would burn to the bedrock. Not even her bones would remain intact after the inferno.

  ‘I won’t despair,’ she whispered, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘I’ll fashion the rope before –’ A sharp metallic click.

  ‘God!’ she breathed, taking hold of the latch handle and pulling, hardly daring to hope.

  The iron-bound portal swung open, key still in the big lock. The little servant-wench Chelaire stood there, red-eyed and coughing in the murky haze, her garments torn and filthy. One of her eyes had been blacked, there was a great purple bruise on her brow, and her mouth bled where she’d lost a tooth.

  ‘Lady Mayda…when I overheard what he planned to do, I…but he struck me and I fell down the outside stairs and lost my senses. I think they thought I’d died. They left me…Oh, hurry!’

  ‘You blessed child!’ Maudrayne embraced the girl. ‘I’ll find some way to repay you.’

  Ideas flooded into her mind, notions that might save herself and the little maid once they were quit of the burning lodge. She was already wearing her opal necklace and golden hair-clasps. Swiftly, she pulled a woolen cloak from its peg and flung it onto the floor. Hauling open a coffer, she tossed out hunting boots, knit stockings, and her largest raincape. From her nightstand came her silver beaker, a half-burnt candle, and a tinderbox. Her dressing table yielded a little ivory casket of jeweled baubles and rings, presents from Tinnis Catclaw. Last of all, she seized from a nearby shelf the portfolio containing her precious herbarium, then bundled everything up in the cloak and thrust the improvised pack at Chelaire.

  ‘Hold onto this tightly!’ She scooped up the little servant in her strong arms and began to run down the west-wing corridor.

  The flames had not yet reached this upper floor of the lodge, but when Maude reached the head of the main staircase, she saw to her horror that the steps and bannisters were already on fire. The ornate vestibule below, and the great hall with its carved beams, tapestries, and mounted animal heads, was a raging inferno. As she hesitated, wondering whether it might be possible to dash through to the front door, a thick cloud of spark-laden smoke billowed up at her, sending her reeling and nearly causing her to drop the girl.

  ‘My lady!’ Chelaire screamed. ‘The back stairs – we must go that way, down through the kitchen!’

  Maude turned about, blinded and half-suffoca
ted, then staggered back the way she had come, finally reaching the east-wing stairway used by the lodge servants. The smoke was less dense up at the top, so they were able to breathe more easily. But someone had closed the door at the foot of the stairs and it was too dark to see what lay below.

  ‘I can’t carry you down,’ Maudrayne gasped to the girl. ‘It’s too narrow and steep. Can you walk? Here – give me the bundle of things.’

  Chelaire slipped out of her arms and scuttled downward. ‘I’ll see if it’s safe. Wait there!’ In a moment she gave a jubilant squeal and flung open the lower door, filling the stair-well with light. ‘Come ahead, my lady! There’s no fire here and almost no smoke.’

  Clutching her awkward burden and murmuring a prayer of thanks, Maudrayne descended, followed Chelaire through the deserted kitchen and scullery, and emerged into the lodge’s courtyard. The two of them stood still for a moment, gazing back at the elaborate timbered structure from which they’d just escaped. The lodge’s entire western wing – including the apartment that had been Maude’s own – was a roaring conflagration. Flames leapt from every window now and the roof was already beginning to collapse.

  Chelaire burst into wild sobs. ‘They wanted to burn you alive. Alive!’

  ‘But they failed,’ the Princess Dowager said, ‘thanks to you. Now come away with me, dear child. We must be well away from here and find a safe place to sleep on the mountainside before darkness falls.’

  Six guards led Beynor from the gatehouse to the Sovereign’s quarters, where he was sequestered for over an hour in a stuffy little closet that was apparently used as an office by one of the ducal secretaries. It was furnished only with a bench, a writing desk and stool, a tall press stuffed full of rolled parchments, a bookcase, and an oil lamp in a wall sconce – lit because the place had only a narrow glazed loophole for a natural light source.

  To preserve a modicum of dignity when they came for him, Beynor sat down at the bare desk, thinking about what the guards in the barbican had told him upon his arrival, while he awaited Duke Ranwing’s inspection. The men had admired his mount and sword (although they seemed astonished that one so splendidly accoutered had arrived unattended), and peppered him with questions in the egalitarian manner of the Didionite lower classes.

  Beynor had responded cheerfully, admitting his identity, telling a tale of exile in faraway lands, and inquiring about his devastated country as though he knew little of what had transpired there during the past twenty years.

  The guards winked and nudged each other, understandably skeptical of his claim, but they continued to treat him with hearty courtesy. Much of what they related was old news; but Beynor was interested to learn that numbers of Mosslanders, especially those dwelling in regions remote from Royal Fenguard and the once-populous eastern seaboard, had escaped the ravening Salka invaders and made new homes for themselves in Didion. There were now good-sized Mossy enclaves in the city of Incayo and around Riptides Castle in the Thorn River Estuary – humble folk for the most part, with a smattering of ruined nobility as well. The guards knew of no important conjure-lords or members of Moss’s once-powerful Glaumerie Guild among the refugees. But one man allowed as how such gentry were likely to keep quiet about their former status to avoid provoking the jealousy of local magickers.

  I must investigate these settlements of my countrymen, Beynor said to himself. He would need human followers – as well as a source of real money. Sorcery could accomplish only so much.

  Other thoughts and questions filled his head as he waited, speculations about the Salka Eminences’ reaction if he should be accepted as Moss’s legitimate ruler, even plans that might let him maintain a foothold in Ironcrown’s court if his claim were denied. And then there was Beynor’s slippery one-time ally Kilian Blackhorse, architect of the theft of Darasilo’s Trove from Cala Palace as well as fellow-instigator of the massacre on the River Malle. How long would it take the cunning old bastard to begin wondering whether Beynor had finally found those missing moonstones?

  I’ll have to deal with Kilian first of all, the sorcerer decided. But before he could think further about it the door to the little room opened and Duke Ranwing stood there, backed by a dozen of his household knights. All of them wore full armor and held naked swords.

  ‘Be so good as to come with us,’ said the duke. ‘Our Sovereign and His Majesty King Somarus have granted you an audience.’

  Beynor inclined his head and rose from the desk. ‘Certainly, my lord.’

  ‘And you must entrust me with your weaponry, messire.’

  ‘Very well.’ Smiling, the sorcerer gave over his two daggers, his table-knife, and the Sword of State, which the duke accepted with a respectful nod. Ranwing Boarsden took the lead as the group proceeded to the High King’s private chambers, carrying the great blade horizontal in his mailed hands. Beynor came after him, flanked and followed by the knights. The door to the royal sitting room swung open and the duke motioned for Beynor to enter ahead of him.

  The place was crowded with at least twenty men wearing hooded crimson robes, doctors of the Mystical Order of Zeth wearing golden gammadion pendants. Each held high a different kind of sorcerous implement – crystals, charms and amulets wrought of many substances, wands, boxes with mysterious contents, and objects unidentifiable – as though they were gifts presented in salute.

  Or talismans elevated to fend off encroaching danger.

  The Royal Alchymist stepped forward to confront Beynor as soon as he was admitted. Stergos raised an ornate reliquary that contained one of Emperor Bazekoy’s famous blue pearls and intoned: ‘All harmful spells avaunt!’

  Beynor was dazzled by a great flash of white light. But since he had attempted no conjuration or other magical activity (and the sigils in his wallet were not yet activated), he was unfazed. Assuming an expression of dignified forbearance, the sorcerer doffed his hat and made a formal obeisance to two men who were almost lost in the mob of alchymists. One of these was tall, blond and stalwart, wearing a red houserobe trimmed with black. The other was grossly overweight, attired in a worn-out gown with a moulting sable collar and cuffs.

  ‘My heartfelt greetings to Your Sovereign Grace and to Your Majesty of Didion. I am Beynor of Moss, once a brother monarch of this island, long exiled but now returned to claim the vacant throne of my nation and offer fealty to the Sovereignty of Blenholme.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Ironcrown said, pushing through the Zeth Brethren without ceremony. He stood, fists on hips, surveying the smiling sorcerer from head to toe and back again.

  One of the knights smote Beynor on the shoulder with his open hand. ‘On your knees before the High King, varlet!’

  Beynor stood as unyielding as a stone statue. His gaze was locked upon that of Conrig. ‘It would not be proper,’ he said mildly, ‘since I am also an anointed king.’

  ‘Let be!’ said the Sovereign, surprising himself. The supplicant’s manner bordered on insolence, but Conrig found himself unable to take offense. There was something about this man that inspired trust and good will – and another, more puzzling emotion as well. The High King beckoned to Somarus, who lumbered up and gave the visitor an intent glare through narrowed eyes. Conrig said, ‘Put our guest to the test, Majesty, in the way we agreed upon.’

  Somarus cleared his throat and declaimed: ‘At the time of the real Beynor’s coronation, when the arriving royal guests from Didion came in procession up the main street of Fenguard Town, several outrageous events occurred. The result was that my late father King Achardus ordered the parade to halt. Then he and I and Crown Prince Honigalus went up to the castle together to demand an explanation. King Beynor offered a plausible excuse. He said his jealous sister Ullanoth had used magic to embarrass him. Then he summarily condemned her to death and offered to let us watch the sentence carried out. The three of us agreed. But first, we said, we wanted to take care of another matter. What was it?’

  Beynor’s lips twitched with repressed amusement but he spoke
gravely. ‘As a result of Ullanoth’s cruel trick, you three royal personages were splattered from helmet to heel-spur in the ordure of seagulls. You wished to clean off the birdshite before viewing the evil witch’s come-uppance.’

  Somarus turned to Conrig with a short nod. ‘He’s got it. And only Beynor and my father and brother and I shared that conversation…This fellow looks like Beynor, too, given adjustments for serious wear and tear and the passage of long years. Although he seems not nearly as obnoxious and arrogant as the boy-king of yore.’

  ‘Wear and tear and exile,’ Beynor observed, ‘tend to round off the sharp edges of the personality. I’m older and, I hope, wiser.’

  ‘And are you still a sorcerer?’ Conrig asked. His tone was neutral. ‘I’ve heard that you were cursed by the Great Lights.’

  ‘The rumor is not entirely accurate. My arcane powers have been diminished by hardship, but I am still capable of exercising moderate talent.’ He nodded pleasantly at Stergos. ‘The Reverend Doctor Arcanorum is undoubtedly much more powerful than I. And perhaps certain others here in the castle also.’

  King Somarus hoisted a single eyebrow. ‘Such as my Lord Chancellor, Kilian Blackhorse?’

  ‘That I cannot say.’ Beynor turned back to Conrig. ‘As I approached this castle, I noted that your Sovereign banner bears four crowns, not three. In your own heraldry, the Conjure-Kingdom of Moss still lives. So – will you accept my legitimacy and my avowal of fealty?’

  Conrig glanced at the King of Didion, who gave a minimal shrug and said, ‘It’s him. I’d bet my goolies on it. But who can say whether the pitiful survivors of his devastated land will accept him? If they agree, it might be prudent for the Sovereignty to do likewise.’