Sorcerer's Moon

by Julian May

  ‘We have at least two more hours of daylight,’ Maudrayne said to their hovering hostess. As yet, they were the only guests in the shabby little place. ‘I mean to spend the time looking for my sister’s house. Not that I’d be likely to spend the night with her,’ she added hastily, seeing the innkeeper’s eyes narrow. ‘Ludine’s husband and I were often at odds in former years, and he might not welcome us.’

  ‘Well, you’ve already paid for your bed here,’ the hostess pointed out tersely. ‘There’ll be no refunds if you do decide to stop elsewhere.’ She eyed Chelaire, who was meekly finishing her small beer. ‘And if you ask me, that little one of yours would be better off tucked in bed. She looks done in. And I’ve got some salve that would help her bruises and her poor black eye.’

  Maudrayne rose from the table. ‘It would be a kindness if you’d let the lass have the salve. But she’s stronger than she looks and the bumps are healing well. It’ll do her no harm to stay up for an hour or two longer. Isn’t that right, Chelly?’

  ‘Oh yes, my – my mother!’ the girl exclaimed. ‘I do so want to see dear Auntie!’

  ‘Likely we won’t find my sister today.’ Maude said, continuing the charade with only a small wince at the maid’s dubious acting ability. ‘I don’t even know what street she dwells on – only that her husband works as a fuller. His name is Olan Wadhurst. I don’t suppose you know of him?’

  ‘The dyers and fullers mostly live in the Mercers’ Quarter,’ the innkeeper said with a dismissive gesture. ‘In the south end. If you intend to go there, you’d best be moving. It’s clear across town.’

  Maudrayne thanked the woman, then inquired whether she might have anything to write upon. ‘I could post a note on the quarter’s bulletin board if my inquiries bear no fruit,’ she explained.

  The hostess rooted through a chest and finally produced a piece of much-scraped and re-used parchment. For this, plus the loan of a pen and ink and a few smears of comfrey ointment from a clay pipkin for Chelaire, she charged Maudrayne a halfpenny, then went off about her business.

  ‘I know you are aching and weary, child,’ the princess whispered as she tended the girl’s wounds, ‘but if you will be strong and brave for one more hour, it may be that you and I will sleep in Beorbrook Hold tonight, rather than in this dreadful hovel.’

  ‘It seems a nice enough place to me, Lady Mayda,’ Chelaire said, ‘but I’ll do anything you want me to.’

  ‘Good. While I write, go to our room and fetch the book of dried plants we carried away from the lodge. Wrap it in your old skirt.’

  While Chelaire ran off, Maude composed a letter to the widow of Parlian Beorbrook’s eldest son, slain in the Edict of Sovereignty massacre over two decades earlier. Of necessity, the message was couched in ambiguous terms. If the woman was able to decipher it, would she still feel sympathy for the former queen, a woman of her own nation of Tarn, whom she’d met only briefly such a long time ago?

  Chelaire came dashing back, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle. ‘Here it is, my – my mother! Shall I carry it for you? It’s not heavy at all.’

  ‘Do so, Chelly. But take care not to drop it. Auntie would be very disappointed if our gift for her were damaged.’

  The countess finished examining the extraordinary herbarium book that had been wrapped in dirty rags, closed it, and set it aside on her desk. With a troubled expression, she smoothed the grubby and wrinkled piece of parchment the footman had brought to her along with the book, reading it for a second time. The words were beautifully formed, for all that they had been set down with a quill having an illcut nib that left unsightly blots.

  My dear Morilye,

  A countrywoman of yours begs your help with the utmost urgency, and beseeches that you keep this message secret. I am one whom you met many years ago in Cala, while your dear husband still lived. At that time, you expressed a kindly interest in a pastime of mine which others thought foolish. And so I showed you other books such as the one that accompanies this letter, which I had assembled with my own hands. Do you remember?

  In the goodness of your heart, would you be willing to lend assistance to one who once was high, but now is laid low? What was said of me is not true. I was unjustly accused. Now I am here at the gate of Beorbrook Hold, in danger of my life, with no one else to turn to. I promise not to inflict my presence upon you for long. I only beg you will let me rest briefly, secure from those who would hunt me down and kill me. Then I will leave.

  If you cannot see your way clear to meet with me, then send word and I will go away.

  M – who was once Q

  Countess Morilye reached for the bell that would summon her footman, then thought better of it. Taking up a shawl against the chill of the approaching evening, she hurried through the corridors, halls, and inner ward of the massive fortress, ignoring the curious looks of guards and servants, and came at last to the main gatehouse and the small office of the captain of the guard. He hastily rose from a desk where he had been scribbling on a slate, clapped his helmet back on his head, and knuckled his breastplate in salute.

  ‘My lady! What brings you out here alone?’

  ‘Riscodon, where is the woman who sent in the note to me?’

  ‘She and her little girl are in the guardroom being questioned by my sergeant. Did you know that there was an advisory sent out several days ago concerning a tall woman who had absconded from the custody of Lord Constable Catclaw? We were told she might attempt to enter Beorbrook Hold with mischievous intent. Even though this present visitor did not quite fit the description, I thought it best –’

  ‘Take me to her at once,’ the countess commanded.

  The captain inclined his head. ‘Please follow me, my lady.’

  They crossed the gatehouse to another chamber with a soldier on guard outside. The officer motioned him aside, then opened the door and bade Morilye precede him.

  The countess halted with a small cry as she saw a woman standing furious and defiant, back to the wall, with a frightened young maid clinging to her skirts. The hair straggling from her grubby wimple was a richer red than Morilye’s own greying tresses, and her eyes were blazing, full of haughty disdain for the hapless man who had attempted to interrogate her. At the sight of the countess, the woman’s demeanor underwent an abrupt change. The anger drained from her features and she smiled as radiantly as sunlight bursting through stormclouds. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped short, a wary expression replacing the look of sudden joy, and waited in silence as the sergeant began blustering to his superior.

  Countess Morilye broke in. ‘Captain Riscodon, you and your man may leave us. Close the door behind you.’

  ‘But, my lady –’ the officer began.

  ‘This woman and I are old friends. She cannot possibly be the one sought by the Lord Constable. There is no danger. Go now.’

  He gave a curt nod and both men retreated.

  Maudrayne put her finger to her lips as the door slammed. ‘They’ll be listening. Speak softly. So you do remember me?’

  In answer, Morilye stepped close and enfolded the princess in her arms. Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘I can’t believe you’re alive, Maude! How in God’s name did this come to be? What are you doing here? Who is trying to kill you? What can I do to help?’

  Maudrayne gently released herself from the other woman’s embrace and spoke low. ‘There’s peril in it if you do help me. I give you fair warning. Tinnis Catclaw would have me slain without batting an eye – for he engineered my fictitious death out of besotted love, and has kept me prisoner in a mountain lodge near here for some sixteen years.’

  ‘The lecherous brute! And him a married man with five children.’

  ‘I forbore attempting to escape for one reason only: Tinnis would have had my dear son Dyfrig killed if I had defied him. All throughout my captivity I was forbidden any contact with my boy. He believes me to be dead, as do all other persons save the Lord Constable.’

  For a moment, the countess was conf
used. ‘Dyfrig? The earl marshal’s adopted son? The royal bastard?’

  ‘Whatever you have heard said of me, I swear he is Conrig Wincantor’s true first-born son.’ Maudrayne spoke through clenched teeth. ‘And now that Dyfrig is a man grown, my only goal in life is to make certain that he knows it.’ In a few brief words the Princess Dowager explained how she had sent a letter to Dyfrig through her friend, informing him of his heritage. ‘But now I fear Catclaw’s men have intercepted poor Rusgann and found the letter. Tinnis had the lodge set afire with me locked up in it. Obviously he wished to destroy all evidence of his treasonous perfidy, fearing that my friend might have told others of my existence. I barely escaped death through the good offices of this dear child, Chelaire, one of the maidservants in the place, who was left behind when the others fled the fire.’

  The countess gave a gasp of horror. ‘Distant smoke was seen from the Hold’s towers a few days ago, but we thought it was wildfire in the highland forests.’ Her face hardened. ‘You asked my help and I’m prepared to give it – Tinnis Catclaw be damned! What is your wish? To be smuggled safely to your people in Tarn? I can arrange that –’

  ‘Nay,’ Maudrayne interrupted. ‘I must go to Dyfrig, wherever he may be.’

  ‘As far as I know, the young prince is at Boarsden in Didion with the earl marshal, attending the great ongoing Council of War called by the Sovereign…Are you aware that the Salka invasion has ended? The monsters are in full retreat! I’ve no doubt that Ironcrown’s army will now disperse and Dyfrig will return home along with the other warriors led by my father-in-law. You can wait here for your son in safety.’

  Maudrayne’s face clouded at the news and she shook her head. ‘I must go to Boarsden at once, regardless. Zeth knows what Tinnis will do next. He might try to harm Dyfrig. At any rate, I’m now determined that my son should know the truth from my own lips: that he is the lawful heir to the Iron Crown of Cathra and the next Sovereign of Blenholme.’

  ‘Oh, my!’ Morilye’s eyes widened. ‘There’s something else you don’t know. Prince Orrion was debarred from the succession after losing his sword-hand. The new heritor is his scapegrace twin, Corodon, and the High King is said to be livid with disappointment! Come – let’s get out of this drafty place and go to my chambers and I’ll tell you everything.’

  She would have headed for the guardroom door, but Maudrayne took her arm and spoke urgently. ‘Wait. I must know whether you will lend me a swift horse and a few trusted men, and see me off to Didion at dawn. I can pay well for their hire.’ She pulled the gold-and-opal necklace that had been Sernin Donorvale’s wedding gift from within the neck of her gown.

  ‘No, no, I won’t hear of any payment!’ Morilye was distressed. ‘My heart breaks at the thought of what you must have suffered. I’ll lend you a fine horse. If you ride hard, you can reach Boarsden Castle in less than three days. My two young Tarnian cousins who serve here as armigers will ride with you. Tormo and Durin are strong, stouthearted lads, well versed in the warrior’s art even though they are only fifteen and sixteen years old. I would trust them with my own life.’

  ‘For their own safety, they must not know the truth,’ Maude warned.

  ‘We’ll devise a suitable story and disguise you well.’ She regarded the princess thoughtfully. ‘You might dress as a man! You’re tall enough. My late husband’s coffers can provide suitable garb, just a little old-fashioned. You could even take some of his armor and weaponry if you choose, and I can outfit you with a surcoat bearing the device of a Beorbrook household knight. No one in the borderlands would challenge you if you wore it.’

  ‘An excellent idea. And I know how to use both sword and shortbow, if it should be necessary.’

  For the first time, the little maid Chelaire spoke up. ‘I’ll go with you, Lady Mayda! I can pretend to be a boy, too.’

  Maude whispered, ‘Oh, my dear brave Chelly!’ She caught up the girl in her arms and hugged her, but her eyes met those of the countess and she shook her head imperceptibly.

  ‘We’ll talk about it inside,’ Morilye said, giving the princess an understanding glance. The girl would be well taken care of. ‘Chelly, do you like quince tarts, honey-poppyseed biscuits, and mulled wine with clove and cinnamon?’

  The maid ducked her head shyly. ‘Indeed, my lady, I’ve never had any.’

  ‘You’ve a fine treat in store,’ the countess said. ‘Follow me, both of you.’

  About an hour after sunset, following a simple evening meal taken with the Sovereign and the Tarnian leaders at the encampment of Sealord Yons Stormchild, which lay directly across the Malle from Boarsden Town, Prince Heritor Corodon went off for a solitary stroll along the riverbank, cursing his rotten luck. The sky was clear and moonless, spangled with bright stars. At supper, Grand Shaman Zolanfel had opined that the Great Lights might be visible tonight, for the first time since the spring equinox.

  Corodon had spent a second long and exhausting day attending his father. The Sovereign was in the saddle from dawn to dusk, riding into every camp and personally addressing each company of troops, giving them the unwelcome news of the fresh Salka threat and the need to redeploy to staging areas more suitable to the defense of the west coast.

  In spite of the pleas of his son, Crown Prince Valardus, Somarus had intractably refused to order his ground forces into Tarn; Conrig finally agreed to a compromise in order to stave off a ruinous confrontation.

  The entire army was under orders to pull up stakes in three days and prepare to march to one of two new interim bases. All of the Tarnians plus two-thirds of the Cathran host, headed by Conrig himself, would proceed to Castle Direwold, where they would be in a position to move swiftly over Frost Pass if the Salka attacked Donorvale or another objective in western Tarn. The rest of the Cathrans, led by Earl Marshal Parlian, and the entire Didionite force under Valardus and Duke Kefalus Vandragora, would take a position on the shore of the Lake of Shadows, the first to respond if the monsters should come ashore at Terminal Bay, Puffin Bay, or Sorna in Didion – which seemed less likely.

  To his disappointment and dismay, Prince Corodon had been assigned to this latter group, with the nominal title of Royal Liaison between the Cathrans and Didionites. It seemed all too clear that his father couldn’t bear the sight of him.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ the prince muttered bitterly, picking up a flat stone and shying it out over the darkening surface of the river. ‘Everyone thinks the Salka will attack Donorvale rather than those raggedy-arse pirate nests in Didion. I should have been given a battle-company of my own to lead! As it is, I’ll straggle into Tarn days later with the Cathran rear guard after the really exciting action is over and done with.’

  Corodon sat on a rock, simmering with frustration. The decision had been made. There was nothing he could do about it.

  Small watercraft were shuttling busily to and fro between Boarsden Town and the camps. Some of them were the bumboats of pedlars and victualers, while others were laden with giggling female passengers whose trade was obvious. The whores would do a roaring business tonight, the prince thought gloomily. Small chance they’d be allowed to accompany the divided army to its new positions. Both Direwold and Shadow Lake were austere outposts with scant facilities for camp-followers. Corodon had already been warned by the earl marshal that his high rank would bring no special privilege in accommodation. He’d sleep in a tent like the rest of the troops, eat pottage and bannock cooked over an open fire, and endure clouds of biting midges drinking his royal blood –

  ‘Good evening, Your Grace. May I join you?’

  Corodon swallowed a yelp of surprise and leapt to his feet at the unexpected salutation. Conjure-King Beynor of Moss stood there in the gloaming, wearing the simple tunic, gartered trews, and dark cloak of a Tarnian land-warrior. Despite the fact that the riverbank was a mass of slippery pebbles, he’d approached without making a single sound.

  ‘What a surprise to see you here, Majesty,’ Corodon said without enthusiasm. ‘I thought t
he Zeth Brethren had you confined to the castle with their sorcery. How did you escape?’

  Beynor laughed good-naturedly. ‘No one keeps me where I don’t want to be. As far as the Brothers know, I’m safe in my rooms. I’ll return there after we’ve had a chance to talk.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Corodon felt a frisson of alarm. His older brother Vra-Bramlow had told him what he knew about the Conjure-King’s ominous history – specifically that he was said to have been an ally of the Salka and a user of moonstone sigils.

  ‘I have a small gift for you,’ Baynor said. He opened his belt-wallet, extracted a sack of wash-leather, and pressed it into Corodon’s hand. ‘When I witnessed your distress at the aborted betrothal feast, I realized that there was a simple remedy for Princess Hyndry’s rejection of you. Go ahead! Open it.’

  The prince loosened the sack’s drawstring and drew forth a pretty little stoppered bottle that contained dark liquid. ‘What is it, Majesty?’

  ‘A most useful potion. Pour it secretly into a lady’s cup of wine, and she will fall in love with the first man who touches her after she drinks.’

  ‘Codders! A love philtre?’

  Beynor nodded. ‘It will cause her to forget her former lovers and diminish her hostility toward a new suitor. Princess Hyndry won’t just fall at your feet, swooning in rapture. She’s rather a tough nut – even for me to crack! But a handsome young chap like you should be able to soften her up if you work at it.’

  Corodon’s eyes narrowed in doubt. ‘Why are you willing to do me a favor? You don’t know me or care about me.’

  ‘You must learn to think like a statesman, Your Grace. This really has nothing to do with you. I’m certain, as your royal father is, that a marriage between the Prince Heritor of Cathra and the Princess Royal of Didion would be advantageous to the Sovereignty – of which I am now a loyal vassal. High King Conrig’s plan to strengthen the bond between two mutually suspicious nations was brilliantly conceived and should not be thwarted by an unfortunate…accident.’