by Julian May
The Eminences thought the idea was promising, but pointed out that the library had been sealed for safekeeping ever since the Salka invasion, since the paged books kept there would not stand examination by slimy Salka tentacle – digits. The place would have to be searched by humans – and the two-hour time span might not allow enough time for the task.
A problem easily solved: Kilian extended the deadline.
Within three hours the book was found. While Niavar and Cleaton held it open, Master Shaman Kalawnn intoned the lengthy conjuration that finally brought the Known Potency to effulgent life…inside the Salka leader’s own gizzard.
Kilian and his companions were struck dumb with terror when the monster’s throat glowed crimson, thinking that some catastrophe had occurred and Kalawnn was being consumed from within by astral fire. But the other Eminences only uttered ear-splitting contrabass chuckles.
The Conservator of Wisdom explained the unusual method of safeguarding the Stone of Stones. Then Kalawnn took up the golden box, opened wide his gigantic fanged maw, and dumped the box’s contents down his gullet with a single neat flick. There was a brief bright flare, and then the glow in the Master Shaman’s throat died away.
He spat out the minor sigils without ceremony and proffered them in their box to Kilian, who stared at the things dumfounded. They glowed softly green beneath a coat of slimy ichor – still alive, and presumably now free of any pain-debt to the Lights. But weren’t they still bonded to the Salka who had originally activated them?
‘You’re understandably reluctant to take them up,’ the Conservator of Wisdom said gravely. ‘I have summoned a volunteer to demonstrate that the stones may now be handled safely by one who is not bonded to them, as was stated in the part of our archival tablet that we managed to decipher.’
The tall doors to the throne room swung open and two very large amphibians wearing the golden gorgets of military officers entered. They escorted a third Salka of woebe-gone aspect, whose tentacles were manacled with chains that seemed made of clear crystal.
‘Krevalawnn, the test has been explained to you,’ said the venerable Eminence. ‘Pluck forth these sigils from their box and place them on the table.’
Trembling like a colossal blackish-green pudding with saucer-sized red eyes, the prisoner obeyed. When nothing at all happened to him, he exclaimed, ‘Then I am free?’
‘You are,’ the Conservator affirmed. He gestured and the chains fell to the throne-room floor, their clatter muffled by the half-decayed layer of kelp that formed an odoriferous carpet.
As the officers led the volunteer away, the Conservator replaced the five minor sigils in the box himself, closed the lid, and handed it to Kilian. ‘Our bargain comes to a satisfactory conclusion. And now you and your companions must make haste to board your ship before the tide turns. It would be dangerous for you to be caught in the Darkling Estuary at the ebb.’
‘I have a final suggestion,’ the Master Shaman said to Kilian. ‘Even though these stones of yours are no longer connected to the pain-channels of the Sky Realm, they still partake of its powers. It would be prudent to use them circumspectly – only for serious reasons.’
‘I agreed, and that was that.’ The Lord Chancellor’s voice had grown faint and raspy. ‘Would you please consider releasing your hold on me now? Even without the nerve-pinch, being constrained in this fashion is very uncomfortable for one as old as I.’
‘In a moment,’ Beynor said. ‘So you sailed home with the liberated sigils in your possession?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where are they now?’
Kilian began to laugh, a sound more dismal than mirthful. ‘On a dusty cabinet shelf in my laboratory, where I relegated the accurst things after discovering the truth.’
‘The…truth? You mean, they were useless? The Salka lied?’
‘No, the monsters may have acted in good faith. They might not have known that an active sigil touched by the Potency will work only once after being rendered pain-free.’
‘Once?’ Beynor was incredulous. His own researches had hinted at no such thing. If it were true, his strategy would have to be changed.
‘It’s only logical, after all,’ Kilian said. ‘When the Beaconfolk discover that the stone no longer feeds their hunger, they refuse to empower it further.’ He bit back another cry of pain. ‘And now, Conjure-King, I’ve told you all I know about moonstone sigils. I beseech you. Have pity on me!’
‘Of course.’
The voice of the invisible man standing behind him was gentle. His grip on Kilian Blackhorse’s chin eased and hope surged in the old alchymist’s heart. But before he could conjure an attack-spell he felt the crook of an arm scissor his throat and a mighty blow strike his head at an oblique angle.
His neck snapped, and all thinking and scheming came to an end.
After consigning the body to the castle moat, from whence it would be carried into the river, Beynor returned to the feast, where no one had noticed his absence.
It was the best meal he’d had in twenty years.
NINE
High King Conrig went to bed alone that night, curtly rejecting the well-meant suggestion of his wife Risalla that she join him for mutual consolation. His tactless dismissal sent the queen away resentful and with hurt feelings; but he scarcely noticed, so infuriated and distraught was he at the defeat of his plan for the betrothal of Orrion and Hyndry.
Not even confirmation of the Salka army’s retreat eased his mind. With the monsters now withdrawing, Somarus’s loyalty would become more shaky than ever. He and Cuva had been thick as thieves during the feast, no doubt cooking up some fresh trouble. Hyndry’s scornful dismissal of Corodon had played right into the Didionite king’s fat hands.
Damn her for a pigheaded quiff! Damn Coro for…being what he was.
There seemed small chance of changing the mind of the headstrong Princess Royal through the courtship tactic proposed by Kilian. More likely, an unsuccessful public wooing would demonstrate to the entire Sovereignty what most members of the Cathran court already knew: that the new Prince Heritor was a poor second-best to his older twin.
How in God’s name could such a handsome, empty-headed booby ever be worthy of the Iron Crown?
Burning with anger and frustration, awake and yet not awake, Conrig thrashed and turned until he sank at last into the strange half-conscious state that had plagued him for months – the nightmare of enemies.
The illusion this time was more vivid and fearsome than ever before. Once again he was trapped in a dim chamber with phantom adversaries on all sides, shrieking and jostling and vying with each other to tear the crown from his head. He laid about with his sword, hewing them to pieces, but no sooner were they hacked limb from limb than they rose up again, whole and stronger than ever.
Enemies. Everywhere.
Salka with clutching tentacles, blood-sucking spunkies, malignant bright Sky beings that tried to drink his pain, a scheming demonic creature, black and blind and immured in ice. And human foes! So many who hated and resented and feared him, persons alive and dead that he’d crushed or oppressed in order to keep that precious Iron Crown.
And now his own son had joined the evil host.
Not wretched Orrion; he was no threat. The enemy was another son, poised to snatch the crown away before any of the other foes realized that he was one of them. But who was he?
He had no face!
Conrig struck a heroic blow with his sword, severing the blank-featured head of the traitor-prince from his body, only to have another head grow up instantly to replace it. The unknown prince and the entire crowd of phantoms closed in, howling in a frenzy of rage and loathing.
Swinging the useless blade, Conrig screamed, ‘Why won’t you die? Why won’t any of you die and leave me in peace?’
Because you are using the wrong weapon.
‘Who spoke?’ the High King cried in desperation. ‘Is there help for me after all?’
There is. I’m here, b
ringing you what you need: the solution to all of your problems, the defense against all who hate you and would sezze your crown.
At the end of his strength, Conrig caught sight of a tall thin man standing at the edge of the mêlée. He was holding up a small object, a wand of some sort carved from pale stone. This is what you need to conquer.
‘Do I know you?’ Conrig asked in bewilderment.
The man smiled. He and the enemies vanished. The nightmare ended as suddenly as it had begun, and the Sovereign of Blenholme slept dreamlessly until morning.
Deveron woke with Induna nestled against him. They lay on their sides under a warm coverlet, alone together in Eldmama Cray’s borrowed cottage. The soft red-gold hair of his wife’s head pressed against his lips and his arm caged her breasts gently as they rose and fell with her slow breathing.
Married for almost a day and a half! He thought about it and smiled as he remembered her shy confession on their wedding night: How desperately she had wanted him when they were finally reunited at his house in Mikk-Town. How she despaired when it seemed he’d make the magical journey to the Green Morass without her. More than anything in heaven and earth she had wanted to lie with him at least once before they separated forever. But a Tarnian woman would never take the initiative in such a private matter. It was against all custom for her to voice her desire. Instead she had flung herself into the boat with him as the Subtle Gateway opened, not caring what might happen to her so long as they remained together. In truth, she had not acted for any rational reason. She only wanted him and would have him, even if it meant defying the Source himself and the terrible Beaconfolk who empowered the Gateway sigil.
She had concluded her confession as he carried her to the marital bed for the first time. ‘And now there’s no need to ask the unaskable question. No need to explain.’
Nor was there. Both of them were persons of talent. With tacit permission freely given, they could speak wordlessly mind to mind as they consummated the love that had endured for sixteen years.
A night and a day and another night alone together. No one had been able to disturb them. Before departing with Thalassa Dru for the conference with the Source, Cray the Green Woman had taught Deveron how to shield her cottage with an invincible spell of couverture – a special wedding gift to her newfound great-great-grandson and his bride…
His arm tightened on Induna’s body as the need awakened again within him. She woke smiling, turned and drew his face close to kiss his lips. Not a word was spoken. All that they did was perfect and sweet and complete. When it was done they lay apart, hand in hand.
‘I wish we could stay here forever,’ she whispered. ‘In this little house, among these friendly people, in a world without brutal kings and wars and monsters and black sorcery.’ She turned to look at him and her hand tightened in his. ‘But we can’t stay. You have your mission and now that you’ve recovered your strength you’ll have to carry it out. But what will become of me?’
‘We’ll do the work together, of course.’
‘What – what if the Source forbids it?’
Deveron laughed and took her in his arms. ‘Let him try. Let anyone try to separate us now.’
They lay in a quiet embrace as the grey dawnlight intensified. The room was chilly, so he used his talent to kindle a fire in the wood already laid on the hearth, then scried beyond the cottage walls to see what kind of weather prevailed.
‘There’s fog this morning,’ he observed. ‘Dense as milk out in the morass, a little thinner here on the higher ground. Impossible to scry through. I wonder if we’re in for an early autumn?’
She sighed. ‘I suppose you ought to lift the spell of couverture. We should find out what’s been happening in the outside world. But let’s stay in bed until the fire warms the place up.’
‘I can do that with my talent, too,’ he pointed out.
She giggled. ‘Use it to a better effect, my dearest, and I’ll use mine as well.’
By the time they finished it was full light. They arose and dressed. While she collected bowls and cups and found tea to brew and eggs to boil and meal for griddle-cakes, he sat in a dim corner of the room and cancelled the cover-spell. Then he let the wind bring its messages to him.
The most urgent and astounding one came from a woman he had thought to be long dead. Ullanoth of Moss addressed him as Snudge, and seemed most annoyed that he had been unreachable for such a long time. Not even Cray and Thalassa, who had returned from beneath the Ice during the small hours of that morning, had been willing to breach the privacy of the newlyweds.
‘Your Majesty! Is it really you? I thought you’d succumbed to the pain-debt of your Great Sigils many years ago. How do you know that private nickname of mine used by King Conrig?’
Obviously I am alive, Sir Snudge. And you need not style me as queen, for my younger brother Beynor has once again usurped the throne of Moss, thanks to your former master.
‘Beynor is back?’ Another amazing surprise.
Yes. The honored guest of the Sovereign in Boarsden Castle, where the battle-leaders of the realm are gathered in a Council of War against the Salka. As to your peculiar alias, I was reminded of it by Ansel Pikan, whom I attended on his deathbed –
‘God rest him…What happened to the poor old fellow?’
He died two nights ago of wounds suffered in service to the Source, the One Denied the Sky. I also serve the New Conflict now, after atoning for my many evil deeds, and I know that you do as well. I bespoke you as Snudge because it is – and is not – your true name. This fact gives you a measure of protection from the worst caprices of the Great Lights, since you introduced yourself to them using it. Ansel bade me give you a message, one that’s rather puzzling, concerning your new mission to the Sovereign of Blenholme.
‘What is it, my lady? I know that I am to assist High King Conrig to carry out his own role in the New Conflict –’
The Sovereign who requires your assistance is not Conrig.
‘What?! But that’s –’
I can only tell you what Ansel said. A deathbed revelation came to him. And perhaps not vouchsafed by the Source at all. I’ve already discussed the matter with Cray and Thalassa, who wonder whether the information may have come from those mysterious allies of the Source who are called the Likeminded Remnant. As I understand it, these are ‘good’ Lights who were defeated in the Old Conflict but not confined beneath the Ice as was the Source. You will have to ask the others about this. I’ll take up no more of your time, for I know they are anxious to bespeak you.
‘Lady Ullanoth – wait! How am I to serve a Sovereign other than Conrig? As far as I know, such a person does not exist.’
Oh, he does. In the future if not in the present, and you must safeguard his life at all costs. Farewell, Sir Snudge.
Baffled, he sent out a windcall to his great-great-grandmother. She responded at once, summoning him and Induna to the longhouse on the opposite side of the village, where the Green shamans had their workrooms and chambers for special ceremonies.
The situation is changing, Grandson, and not for the better. Come with your wife as soon as possible. I’ll see that you’re fed.
When the windthread snapped Deveron went to the hearth where Induna was at work. ‘Hold off making our breakfast, sweetheart. We’ve been invited to eat with Eldmama Cray and Thalassa Dru. They’re back from consulting the Source and have important tidings.’ He lifted his shoulders in an apologetic gesture. ‘I suspect our honeymoon is over.’
She swung the kettle away from the fire and kissed him. ‘Never mind. So long as we can stay together, I’ll be content.’
They had swooped down on the wagon-train not long after dawn, when it was barely five leagues out from Castlemont, a lightly armed company of Cathran warriors wearing the badge of a wildcat’s paw. Their commander, a stout-bodied knight with a drinker’s red nose and a cruel, thick-lipped mouth, wasted no time ordering her to dismount and doff her cloak and hat.
‘She
’s the one!’ he proclaimed in triumph, after studying a sheet of parchment that held a sketch. ‘Her ugly face and the beanpole height of her are unmistakable…Rusgann Moorcock, you are under arrest for grand theft. Our Lord Constable, Tinnis Catclaw, commands that you be conveyed to Boarsden Castle and confined, awaiting his judgment.’
‘You’re mistaken!’ she shrilled. ‘I’m an honest herb-wife of Broadmead near Timberton, and my name is –’
Casually, the knight leaned from the saddle and smacked her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. ‘Shut your gob, you smelly old besom, and climb back onto your mule. Larus! Trozo! Tie her wrists together and lash her feet to the stirrups.’
Two men-at-arms hastened to obey. The frightened drivers in the supply train sat mute on their wagons, helpless to save her. When Rusgann moaned at the tightness of her bonds, the brave carter who’d defended her from the border guard began to open his mouth. She eyed him and shook her head. When she was securely tied, the men remounted. One of them took the mule on a lead, and the entire troop of warriors wheeled about and headed for Boarsden.
Deveron and Induna put on wool cloaks against the morning dampness and made their way to the shamans’ longhouse, greeted by smiling Green Folk going about their morning chores. A light drizzle began to fall, thinning the mist. Through a gap in the trees the partially ruined bulk of Castle Morass could be seen a scant half-league distant. Lighted windows shone in one of its broken towers.
‘Do you suppose we’ll get to meet the old robber-baron who owns the place before we go about our business?’ Induna asked her husband. ‘The village people only shook their heads when I asked about Ising Bedotha earlier. They said he’s dotty as a mistle thrush. But I confess I’d love to know why he supports Casya Pretender and allows the Green Men sanctuary in his lands. Most Didionites fear the little people.’
‘It’s probably simple hatred of Somarus. The king was once an outlaw himself, you know, preying on Wold Road travelers with his gang of brigands until he took the throne and reformed. Since then, he’s crushed most of the free-spirited barons of the backcountry without mercy – even those like Ising, who’d been his friends in the bad old days. I was told by Cray that royal troops battered Castle Morass for weeks, but the baron dug in his heels until Somarus finally called off the fight in disgust. The castle is really too remote from trade routes to be strategically important. Laying siege to it turned out to be prohibitively expensive.’