by Julian May
‘Fine. That cheese smells appetizing.’
Beynor took a bread-roll from a small side-table, tore off half, and plopped the oozing tidbit onto it. ‘Try this. Will you also join me in a cup of the duke’s honey-liquor? I intend to take my metheglin mulled to warm my belly. It seems those who prophesied continuing fair weather were badly misled. You and your army will have an uncomfortable march.’ He thrust a red-hot iron into an earthenware mug. Hissing steam and a sweetly pungent scent arose.
Conrig nodded and settled into a cushioned chair. Rain was ticking steadily against the glazed window and the fire felt good in the chilly room. He nibbled his bread and cheese and sipped from the cup of hot spirits before speaking. ‘You know why I came, Conjure-King.’
Beynor pushed the mulling iron back into the glowing coals. ‘To congratulate me on the presumed success of Prince Corodon’s love philtre?’
‘Let’s not be premature. Princess Hyndry only agreed to let my son pay his court to her. The minx might only be toying with him.’
Beynor smirked. ‘I think she’s doing more than that – even as we speak! But we can only wait and see. I hope that my ploy met with your approval – in spite of King Somarus’s adverse reaction. He nearly died of tonight’s fit, you know. Only heroic efforts by his wizards and your Zeth Brethren saved him from a fatal stroke.’
Conrig’s features remained bland. ‘I didn’t know that. I do know that his physicians have forbidden him to accompany the Southern Wing of the army when it moves out. Crown Prince Valardus is now officially Commander-in-Chief of Didion’s armed forces. He only accepted the post when his father agreed not to supersede his authority.’
‘There’s one obstacle to victory tidily removed!’ Beynor took a large bite of his cheese roll and chewed with enthusiasm. ‘I wish I could take credit for it. But it was only a welcome but unforeseen side-effect.’ When the Sovereign said nothing, he took the iron from the fire and plunged it into his own cup. ‘And now you are here in the middle of the night, to question me about the sigils that Prince Corodon told you about.’
‘The boy said you showed the moonstones to him.’
Beynor set aside his metheglin. ‘You wish to see them for yourself? Very well.’ He went to an oaken clothes press, opened it, and took a stained leather pouch from one of the shelves. Returning to the fire, he pulled the table with the food and drink between the chairs and laid out four small translucent objects after unwrapping each from its cloth covering.
Conrig found himself holding his breath. He recognized the Weathermaker ring: his dead lover Ullanoth had owned one exactly like it. The wand was the same as that he had seen in his dream. The sigil Coro had thought shaped like a carrot was actually an icicle. But what was the smooth disk?
He asked Beynor.
‘This is not one of the Great Stones. You might think of it as a key, having the potential to activate the others. It works…in an irregular manner. It’s preferable to bring the sigils to life through certain lengthy incantations to the Lights spoken in the Salka tongue, but I no longer possess the necessary reference books containing them.’
‘And you are also forbidden to use the activated sigils yourself,’ the king stated. ‘So you require – shall we say – a surrogate. An agent.’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s stop playing games, Beynor. Do you actually intend to give these things to me?’
‘Would you dare to accept them, my liege?’ The sorcerer’s black eyes danced with mockery. ‘They can be very dangerous. And the one who uses their sorcery will suffer intense pain. I believe you already know this. But are you also aware that the stones will only bond to persons of talent? It’s a fact known to very few. I only recently confirmed it myself. However, I suspect that my aunt, the Sorceress Thalassa Dru, may be aware of it…as well as the Royal Alchymist. If you wield these sigils, you put yourself in peril from more directions than one.’
‘My brother Stergos already knows of my talent. He’s known for years and kept quiet about it. And I’m prepared to risk and endure anything in order to save this island from being conquered by Salka monsters.’
‘Are you indeed!’ Beynor sipped his drink. ‘Knowing how my poor mother died after attempting to use Destroyer, I was too cowardly to activate it – even though I might have thereby saved my crown. And made myself Sovereign of High Blenholme in your place.’
The blood drained from Conrig’s face, but his voice remained calm. ‘What was it that your mother asked of Destroyer that brought about her terrible fate?’
‘I don’t know. My father was driven mad by the hideous manner of her death and would never discuss the matter with me. Whatever it was, the Lights were so affronted by her command to the stone that they requited her no mercy. The worst of it is, her mortal mistake might have been a trivial thing! Who knows how supernatural beings think?’
‘What did you do that made the Beaconfolk curse you?’ Conrig asked suddenly.
Beynor scowled. ‘That’s none of your affair.’ He began rewrapping the stones and restoring them to their pouch.
Before he could deal with Destroyer, Conrig laid a single finger on the wand. ‘It’s cool,’ he remarked in surprise.
‘Ordinary. Rather fragile. One could snap it with a sharp blow against the table’s edge.’
‘Only if it were not alive and bonded to an owner. A living sigil glows faintly green. If it’s touched without the owner’s permission, it burns flesh like white-hot metal. Try to break it then, Your Grace, and it will smite you like a thunderbolt, leaving only ashes behind.’ He finished and tucked the pouch into his robe. ‘You haven’t yet asked me what I expect in return for the sigils.’
‘Coro said you wanted me to defeat the Salka and give you back your lost kingdom. But I rather think you want more.’
‘What I want – and what I might expect to receive and to keep – are two different things.’ The sorcerer’s voice was heavy with bitterness. ‘If I activate the sigils and teach you how to use them, you must accept me as your chief adviser and do as I say in matters of sorcery. Moonstone sigils are not safely wielded by amateurs. You’ll need expert coaching.’
The king made no reply. He’d see about that…
‘I’ve also learned that the Salka are making two Great Stones of their own to use as weapons against you. One is a Subtle Gateway, like the sigil once owned by your Royal Intelligencer, and the other is a Destroyer. The source of the raw material being used to manufacture those sigils is now obliterated. But the Salka have located a second outcropping of the stuff on a mountaintop and plan to go after it as soon as possible.’
‘Bazekoy’s Burning Britches!’ Conrig’s hope that the Salka were unaware of the Demon Seat moonstone source was dashed. But would the clumsy amphibians actually be able to get hold of the mineral?
They would, he realized with an apprehensive chill, if they used that Gateway sigil they were making.
‘Even if you defeat this invading army,’ Beynor was saying, ‘they’ll make more sigils in the future and start the war all over again unless a way is found to deny them the source of moonstone mineral. It’s a nasty situation.’
‘Well, what the hell can I do about it?’ Conrig growled.
‘We can do a great deal – if you follow my instructions precisely and agree to abide by certain conditions when wielding these sigils.’
‘Huh! What do you expect of me?’
‘First, you must swear to use the Great Stones only under my guidance. Second, your brother Stergos must be removed from the position of Royal Alchymist and retired to private life – or otherwise disposed of. I won’t brook his interference or hostility. And neither should you, as you pursue your ambition of emulating the Emperor Bazekoy and set about to conquer the Continent.’
‘You know about that?’ Conrig said in surprise.
Beynor got up from from his chair. Standing before the fire, he was a dark silhouette, the enigmatic tall image of the king’s nightmare. ‘I know everyth
ing about you – all your vainglorious schemes, all your hopes and fears and secret perfidies. We’re more alike than you can possibly realize, Conrig Wincantor.’
‘Liar,’ shouted the Sovereign. He surged to his feet, sent the table and its contents crashing to the hearthstones, and would have taken hold of the taunting magicker and choked him senseless. But his muscles refused to obey. He stood helpless, with arms locked at his sides and fists clenched. ‘Release me!’ he groaned.
‘Of course.’ Beynor made a negligent gesture.
‘Whoreson!’ The king lurched as his body came alive again. He saved himself from falling only by catching hold of his chair.
Beynor chuckled. ‘You’re quite unscathed – as Bazekoy’s blue pearl knows – which is why it ignored the little spell I just cast upon you. But even when the pearl’s enchantment is nullified, after we leave this castle, you’ll never be able to harm me. If I become your mentor in sorcery, the arrangement will be permanent. You won’t break it through mayhem or murder. And if you try to use the sigils against me, I’ll abolish their magical power, turn them into dead trinkets, and find a more compliant creature to wield them.’
‘Cullion!’ Conrig whispered in cold fury. ‘Mind-futterer! How could I possibly have considered allying myself with an insolent conniver such as you?’
‘Easily.’ Beynor flipped one hand in dismissal. ‘But you’re free to do as Stergos advised. Send me away to Incayo. I won’t stay there, of course. You can’t confine me anywhere. Understand that! I’ll leave Blenholme to you – and the Salka – and seek my fortune on the Continent. Is that what you want? Shall I depart this very night?’
Conrig’s gaze shifted. His knuckles gripping the chair-back were white. ‘No,’ he said at last in a strained voice. ‘Don’t go.’
‘You’ll have to take me with you on the march to the Tarnian border and leave Stergos behind.’
‘He could insist on coming. Use gammadion sorcery against me. Last night…he dared to smite me senseless. Me! His own brother and liege lord.’
‘Then the situation with him is even more grave than I suspected. We may be able to conceal your secret talent – even your use of the sigils – from your war-leaders and the lesser magickers by subterfuge. But Stergos won’t be fooled. He won’t stand by helplessly while you draw power from the Beaconfolk. Your dear brother is allied with those on the opposite side of the New Conflict.’
‘What…is the true nature of that conflict?’
‘It’s complicated. There’s not enough time for me to explain it now. All that need concern you is the necessity of removing any threat posed by your brother. We can’t use the sigils safely if he knows about them. You know that he’s lied to you, held back vital information, consorted with inhuman beings and even pledged himself to their mysterious cause. His protestations of loyalty and fraternal devotion are nothing but a sham. He’s one of your enemies, even if he’s never appeared in your nightmares.’
But he loves me, Conrig thought. He’s known about my talent but kept the secret all this time against the dictates of his conscience.
‘Can’t you cope with Stergos, Beynor? I don’t think I’d know how.’
‘Your brother has instructed his gammadion pendant to defend him against any sort of attack from me. Stergos knows I’m trying to sway you. He can’t scry out my sigils – even the inactive moonstones are imperceptible to wind adepts. But he already knows that I’ve influenced your dreams.’
‘Why did you do that?’ Conrig demanded. ‘You nearly unhinged my mind, damn you!’
‘I had to warn you in a way you couldn’t ignore. To make you aware of unsuspected threats. To prepare you for this meeting – this understanding between us. Do you remember the strange dead-black creature with the tentacular arms, one of the principal menaces you fought with in your nightmare?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s real. His name is the One Denied the Sky – but he is also called the Source of the Conflict. This entity is your greatest foe. The Source will stop at nothing to deprive you of the sigil sorcery I offer to you – merely because it draws power from his own ancient adversaries, the Beaconfolk. He cares nothing for the human population of High Blenholme Island. He even disdains the Salka! All that matters to this aloof creature is a longstanding war between factions of supernatural beings including himself: the so-called New Conflict. And Stergos is allied with this inhuman monstrosity. If you doubt me, just ask him.’
‘No,’ Conrig said. ‘I believe you.’
Beynor thought for a few minutes. ‘What I can do to help you, is prepare another sort of philtre. One you can administer to your brother, which I cannot because of his gammadion’s protection.’
‘You mean a poison.’
‘It would be a quick and painless end. What most of us hope for, after all. Stergos would fall asleep and never waken. If you wish I’ll make the philtre tonight, using chymicals in the workroom of the late Kilian Blackhorse. I’ll leave the vial in your apartment anteroom, a crystal bottle containing a colorless, tasteless liquid. What you do with it is up to you.’
The king’s face was unreadable. ‘Just like that.’
Beynor shrugged and changed the subject. ‘Our sudden “friendship” won’t sit well with your more conservative nobles and generals, but I’ll try to be tactful while we’re in the field, stay out of the public eye for as long as it’s expedient. When battle with the Salka is joined, however, I must be at your side.’
‘Can you tell me where the invaders will land?’ The king’s voice was almost despairing.
‘Not yet,’ Beynor admitted. ‘Scrying underwater is arduous work, but I’ll locate their main force eventually. Windsearching their reinforcements may be more difficult because of the greater distances involved.’
‘Reinforcements?’ Conrig cried.
‘I’ve learned that a large contingent of Salka reserve fighters from Fenguard are swimming around the south end of the island to link up with the others.’
‘God help us! How many?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll try to find out. I’ll also do my utmost to assist your campaign using my own sorcery. I spoke less than the truth during our first meeting when I said my uncanny faculties are weaker than those of Stergos. They’re far from it! You’ll have a new Royal Alchymist – unofficially, of course – considerably more powerful than the old one.’
The old one! Conrig thought in despair. Oh, Gossy. Why couldn’t you have remained faithful? Why did you abandon me? Now I have no choice. None at all.
Aloud, the king said in a dull voice, ‘When will you activate the sigils?’
‘When you need them. Not before.’ The sorcerer paused. His narrow face had gone hard. ‘Do you swear to abide by my terms, then? Without any mental reservation?’
Conrig Wincantor, Sovereign of Blenholme, lowered his head in surrender. ‘I swear it by my Iron Crown.’
‘Excellent. Then I suggest we part company and go to bed.’
Conrig turned away from the sorcerer and started toward the door. ‘Yes. Both of us need peaceful sleep.’ He looked over his shoulder and added, ‘We should clarify one final point. There will be no more induced nightmares or other invasions of my dreams by you. Ever. Otherwise, our bargain is void.’
‘The tactic is no longer necessary,’ Beynor said with a smile. ‘Goodnight, my liege.’
The six young Heart Companions waited impatiently for the Prince Heritor to join them at a pre-dawn breakfast. While they gobbled a hearty meal in anticipation of the upcoming day’s ride to Rockyford Way Station in pouring rain, the young noblemen exchanged wild speculations concerning Corodon’s whereabouts on the previous night. He had failed to return to his room in their communal apartment following the feast.
‘He might have gone out with the search-parties looking for the Lord Constable,’ opined Lord Ilow. ‘Coro helped find Catclaw’s horse, you know. He hunts the marshes often and knows the area.’
‘Or perhaps the Sovereign’s st
ill pissed off at our prince in spite of Hyndry’s change of heart,’ Lord Fentos suggested lugubriously. ‘What if he sent poor Coro back to Cala Palace to sit out the war?’
‘If old Somarus kicked the bucket last night,’ Lord Alardon speculated, ‘all the royals in the castle might have had to sit with the body overnight in some weird barbarian ritual.’
‘Hsst!’ Lord Rabidig whispered in alarm. ‘He’s coming.’
‘Good morrow, Your Grace!’ Lord Mardilan said brightly. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Corodon shuffled into the room like a man half-conscious, garments wrinkled and imperfectly fastened, eyelids drooping, and lips curved in a sweet dreamy smile. Without a word to his disconcerted friends, he plopped into his regular seat at the head of the table, poured ale into a beaker with a shaking hand, and chugged it down in four heroic gulps. He belched, then emitted a deep sigh. The silly grin returned.
‘Bazekoy’s Buttocks!’ cried Lord Jerek, who sat next to the prince. ‘What in God’s name ails you, Your Grace? Are you ill?’
‘Nay, Jerry. Far from it.’ He flapped a hand at his empty plate. ‘Please. One of you dish me up some food. I’m famished. I’ll faint in the saddle if I don’t eat something now, and Father will poke fun at me. But I’m too wrung-out to lift a platter or crock.’
Uncertain chuckles greeted this remark. The six Companions had been told yesterday that King Conrig had ordered the Heritor not to accompany him, but to ride instead with Earl Marshal Parlian’s smaller Southern Wing to the Lake of Shadows, along with the despised army of Didion.
Naturally the prince’s band of Heart Companions would have to go with him and share his humiliation.
Corodon sensed their discomfort. ‘What? Long faces? Ah – what a fool I am! I forgot to give you lads the happy tidings. My royal father has changed his mind. I’ll ride at his side after all, with the Northern Wing of the army to the encampment below Frost Pass. And so will you!’
The young nobles broke into clamorous cheers while the prince picked up his table-knife and thrust it into the air as though he were leading a battle charge with sword on high. ‘Forward!’ he croaked. ‘Bring on the monsters!’ The others echoed him, roaring with laughter.