Sorcerer's Moon

by Julian May

  Count Ilow Woodhouse, the oldest of the Companions at nineteen and the most sensible, heaped Corodon’s plate with bacon and scrambled eggs and fried bread, then poured more ale. ‘Would you care to tell us what happened last night? We were concerned when you never came to bed. Did you spend the night with His Sovereign Grace?’

  ‘I slept elsewhere,’ the prince murmured, ‘after conferring with my dear father…It was a night to remember!’

  They stared blank-faced.

  ‘And do you know what?’ the prince continued. ‘The bawdy old tales are right! I thought I knew it all, but I was wrong. God damn that Mossyback sorcerer and bless him, too – I’m fair destroyed. A husk of a man! But so very, very, very –’ He giggled and slumped back in his seat, ignoring the food. ‘Those tales. They’re true, so true.’

  ‘What tales, Your Grace?’ Ilow inquired, mystified.

  Prince Heritor Corodon cocked his head in blissful reminiscence. ‘The stories about older women…Oh, lads, I’m so much in love.’

  The dawn skies over the northern half of High Blenholme Island were ugly, and Cray the Green Woman studied the rushing clouds above the distant ocean with her longsight and shook her head. It was only days past the autumn equinox, and already the weather seemed to be slipping into a pattern more suited to the dreary Boreal Moon.

  Rain sluiced the thatched roof of her snug cottage and poured in sheets from the eaves. She added more wood to the fire and swung the small kettle of milk on its crane to a spot above the coals that would heat it without scorching. Before long, the soul of her friend Thalassa Dru would reenter her inert body, which lay fully clothed on Cray’s bed. The sorceress would need restoring herbal tea and a bowl of milksops with cinnamon and honey.

  After a short time had passed, Thalassa came to her senses, sat up with a grunt, stretched, blew her nose on a frayed old silk kerchief, and joined Cray at the table where the light meal was waiting. She had been entranced for less than an hour. Like the equally adept Cray, she no longer needed to perform a lengthy drum-ritual in order to visit the Source in his otherworldly prison beneath the Ice. The effects of the soul-journey upon her sturdy constitution were also minimal because of her magical expertise.

  ‘Well?’ the Green Woman inquired. ‘Did you manage to obtain a remedy against dream-invasion for Stergos to offer his royal brother?’

  The sorceress paused in the spooning of her pabulum. ‘I have the spell. But, alas – it may be too late to help Conrig. The Source told me that Beynor has already offered the king his three Great Stones. And Conrig has agreed to use them according to Beynor’s instructions.’

  ‘Toadflax!’ Cray exclaimed in consternation. ‘Did the Source know when the actual bonding would take place?’

  ‘The decision is entirely Beynor’s. The king is apparently a willing puppet. His courage and self-assurance seem to be tottering and he fears – quite rightly – that the dubious strategy forced upon him by Somarus will cause a fatal delay in his army’s response to the new Salka invasion. He’s ready to grasp at any remedy. And you may not know this, but Ullanoth once told me that Conrig always had a secret desire to use sigil sorcery, as she and Beynor did. Not only against the Salka, but to further his ambitions of imperial conquest.’

  ‘Did the Source have advice for us about coping with the situation? What if you and I popped through a subtle corridor and stole the sigils from Beynor? Or carried him off and marooned him in the Far East?’

  Thalassa shook her head. ‘I suggested something of the sort. The Source flatly forbade it. We are to inform Deveron Austrey of what’s happened. Nothing more. When I protested, saying that we should take direct action to save Conrig from Beynor’s evil influence, I was told that events are unfolding as they must. Really, I’m very vexed with our leader! He sees only his ineffable cosmic game-plan and spares scant sympathy for us groundling pawns.’

  ‘Ansel dared to defy him,’ Cray noted. Her gentle voice had a rebellious note. ‘The Source is not infallible nor is he omniscient. Ansel single-handedly prevented the Salka from obtaining a large quantity of raw material for new sigils. What he did was justified, even if it cost him his life. Perhaps…’ She trailed off, sending an unspoken question to her friend.

  Thalassa Dru sighed and set aside her spoon. ‘I’m afraid I lack Ansel’s wisdom and invincible confidence. What if we inadvertently brought about disaster through meddling with Conrig and Beynor? It could happen. Even Ansel’s victory was not total. The Salka salvaged enough flawless moonstone in the Barren Lands to manufacture two new Great Stones. The Source told me they’re close to completing a Subtle Gateway and a Destroyer. Beynor might know about this. He could have used the fact to sway Conrig’s decision.’

  ‘Lousewort and pissabed!’ Cray swore. ‘What else did that blind black enigma have to say to you? Is there no good news at all?’

  ‘The Source did have hopeful information from the Likeminded Remnant, although he wasn’t certain what it signified. The exiled Lights – those who abandoned our world’s Sky in despair, leaving only the Remnant behind – have made tentative contact with their old compeers. The exiles are finally willing to listen to the Remnant’s plan for the New Conflict.’

  ‘I suppose it’s encouraging.’

  ‘Do me a favor, dear, and bespeak Deveron Austrey this information while I eat a bit more. I think I need some of your jam tarts and a link of cold venison sausage to rebuild my stamina. This bowl of milksops didn’t quite do the trick.’

  The Green Woman nodded and fetched more substantial fare, including a flask of bilberry cordial to liven up the tea. Then she retired to a corner stool, scried out the present location of the former Royal Intelligencer, and windspoke him at some length.

  When the silent converse was finished, she opened her eyes. ‘Well! Hemlock and henbane – if this isn’t a pretty state of things!’

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Thalassa cried in alarm.

  ‘I understand now why the Source insisted that my grandson rescue the woman Rusgann Moorcock – but I can’t say that I approve of it!’ Cray related everything that Deveron had bespoken her about Rusgann’s mission and her tragic death, as well as the delivery of Maudrayne’s portentous letter to her son Prince Dyfrig.

  Thalassa sat openmouthed with shock. ‘Both the young prince and Earl Marshal Parlian now know that Conrig is Dyfrig’s true father? And that the king possesses secret talent and sits the throne illicitly?’

  ‘They know more than that. Deveron informed them that Conrig’s twin sons by Risalla Mallburn are also attainted by slight magical abilities. In her letter, Maudrayne urged her son to claim the Iron Crown, since he is the only true heir. But Dyfrig rather sensibly shrank from the prospect, knowing it would throw the Sovereignty into chaos at this critical time. His adoptive father, Earl Marshal Parlian, agreed. And so did Deveron – until I told him of Conrig’s alliance with Beynor and those three Great Stones.’

  ‘Will Deveron now try to change Dyfrig’s mind?’

  ‘He hasn’t decided,’ Cray admitted. ‘And I can’t say as I blame him.’

  Thalassa Dru’s usual aplomb was badly shaken. ‘Oh, my dear! Do you think Stergos knows about the letter?’

  Cray nodded. ‘He knows. He was present when Deveron delivered it and immediately divined what it must contain. He’s always known the truth about Dyfrig and the king’s secret talent.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Thalassa murmured. ‘Are we expected to somehow act upon this sensational information? The Source said nothing to me about it. Nothing, damn him!’

  Cray got up from her stool, went to the cottage window, and looked out at the murky rainswept village. Most of the other dwellings were dark. ‘Weather fit for Salka, that’s what it is. Storms everywhere north of the dividing range, and it’s getting colder as well.’

  Thalassa finished the last of the sausage, washing it down with the fortified tea. ‘That’s better. My windtalents only needed a good stoking with hearty fuel. So no
w I’ll bespeak Stergos directly and see what he thinks about all this. And I’ll pass on a warning as well. The Source told me that Beynor ordered Conrig to get rid of his brother – send him away so Beynor would have a clear field. I must tell Stergos to take precautions. He could be in considerable danger.’

  ‘And not only from Beynor,’ Cray remarked. She reached for her cloak, which hung on a peg by the door. ‘I need to do some work in the longhouse, so I’ll leave you to your windspeaking. Poor Stergos! Why don’t we invite him to join us here? Beynor’s ascendance puts him in an untenable position with the Sovereign. And let’s ask him to bring along that chunk of raw moonstone Prince Corodon gave him. We three might experiment with it.’

  ‘So we might,’ Thalassa said with a slow smile. ‘I’ve been thinking about the old manuscript that inspired young Vra-Bramlow to propose the Demon Seat climb to his brothers in the first place. Its author claimed that the mountain was the site of miracles granted to worthy petitioners many years ago. Which must mean that the Remnant used uncarved moonstone mineral as a Sky-to-Ground magical conduit long before Prince Orrion’s adventure! Maybe the good Lights don’t require an entire mountaintop to do the job…’

  ‘Did you tell the Source about Corodon’s two souvenirs?’

  ‘It slipped my mind.’

  ‘Then let’s keep it a secret from him for now, shall we?’ The sweet inhuman face was sly. ‘I wonder if the Prince Heritor still has his own piece? I don’t suppose we can scry it.’

  ‘No. It’s imperceptible to wind-sensibilities, just as the finished sigils are. Hmmm…’ The sorceress stood rooted, mulling new possibilities. Then she strode to the door and began to don her own cloak. ‘I’ve changed my mind, Cray. We don’t dare waste time sending warning messages to Stergos. We need to snatch him! Otherwise, he might do something very foolish.’ She frowned. ‘Or someone else might.’

  ‘Snatch? Through a subtle corridor, you mean?’ Cray’s emerald eyes had gone huge.

  ‘Yes. And I think both of us will have to go for Stergos in case we run into trouble. Spinning a corridor large enough for three will be hard on us, dear, but I think it’s become imperative. We can build the portal in one of the empty longhouse workrooms for safety’s sake. Let’s hurry. I have a foreboding that urgency may be required.’

  ‘Right.’ Cray opened the door and a blast of wind-borne rain smote their exposed faces. ‘Will you conjure the umbrella-spell, or shall I?’

  Garon Curtling had bespoken his master several times during the night while hastening back to Boarsden Castle with the stolen treasure of Lord Kilian. Even though he could see in the dark, the rain had slowed his progress and he was in desperate need of rest. He had worn out two horses and pressed a third to the limit by the time he finally reached the Firedrake Bridge and let Beynor know that he was only an hour or so distant.

  Windsearching across the River Malle as he urged his faltering mount to a last burst of speed, Garon oversaw that masses of troops in the great encampments were already on the march in the stormy dawn, proceeding west toward the Wold Road in endless torchlit columns, four abreast if mounted and six abreast afoot. Before long, he knew, the Sovereign and his generals, along with the battle-leaders of Tarn and Didion, would also quit the castle.

  In their last wind-conversation, Beynor had informed Garon that he intended to accompany the Sovereign, but he said nothing about taking the younger wizard with him. Garon had prudently held his peace about the matter; he still hadn’t made up his mind whether or not to accept the Conjure-King’s offer of employment.

  More important was Beynor’s command that Garon meet him privately within Boarsden Castle as soon as he returned. The reason for the meeting had at first made the renegade Brother of Zeth wild with anticipation. Later, the momentary excitement was obliterated by a saddle-weariness that threatened to rob him of his senses.

  Garon arrived at last in the teeming castle ward around the seventh hour of morning, feeling more dead than alive and splashed from head to toe with mud. Flinging the reins of his jaded horse to an ostler, he hoisted the weighty bags of treasure and stumbled into the vestibule of the Wizards’ Tower where Beynor was lodged. The long climb up the winding staircase carrying the heavy burden almost finished him. His heart was bursting and he had to pause for breath at every landing. Fortunately, almost everyone he met was going in the opposite direction and paid no attention to him at all.

  There was no one on guard in the corridor outside Beynor’s room. Before he could lift his hand to knock, the door opened.

  ‘Quickly, inside with you!’ Beynor exclaimed. He locked the door behind Garon and re-established the cover-spell. ‘Where are Kilian’s inactive sigils?’

  The younger man gaped at him. Beynor was wearing the riding habit of the Brothers of the Mystical Order of Zeth. An authentic-looking gold gammadion pendant hung from a chain around his neck. ‘Speak up, man,’ he snapped.

  ‘In there,’ Garon gasped. He dropped the saddlebags with a thud and pointed to one of them. ‘Those bloody things must weigh over five stone, all told. For God’s sake, give me water!’ He would have collapsed, but Beynor’s magic caught him and lowered him into a chair beside the door.

  ‘Rest there, my friend,’ Beynor said. ‘I’ll fetch something.’ He returned in a few moments with a beaker of water and a small dish of confections. ‘Suck one of these herbal pastilles. It will restore your strength.’

  Garon relaxed as fresh vitality animated his spent body. ‘Ah, that’s better! Am I in time, master? The ward below is a turmoil of caparisoned horses and splendidly armed men.’

  ‘King Conrig and the great battle-leaders of Cathra, Tarn, and Didion are gathering for a last-minute emotional rally before riding out to join their troops on the road. We have a good hour to spare. I’m very pleased with you, Garon. You’ve done exceptionally well.’

  ‘Thank you, master.’

  Beynor proffered the dish of pastilles again, popping one into his own mouth. ‘Eat another of these. They’re good for aches and pains as well as banishing fatigue. And divest yourself of those filthy things. I have fresh clothes waiting for you. There are two sorts: civilian garb if you’ve decided to go your own way, and a habit of the Zeth Brethren to match my own, if you choose to work with me. Take your pick. A tub of warm water stands before the fire behind that folding screen, along with soap, sponges, a towel and a razor.’

  The haggard features of the besmirched magicker gained vital color and his sagging body straightened. He trudged away to bathe, peeling off his sodden garments and dropping them on the floor behind him.

  Beynor put the saddlebags on a table and began unpacking them. Most of the weight was sacks of gold coinage, which the sorcerer set aside. The true riches were in four opaque steelmesh bags with magical seals…and perhaps in a little wooden box tucked into an old oilskin sack. He broke the enchantment on the first mesh bag easily and found it packed full of luminous strings of large pearls. The second bag contained star-ruby cabochons and the third held quantities of square-cut emeralds as green as new grass. The last bag was crammed with faceted diamonds; none of them were smaller than pease, and several dozen were almost the size of hazelnuts. He’d never seen their like anywhere.

  Beynor smiled in satisfaction as he pulled the drawchains shut again and ensorcelled their locks with the anti-theft spell. Finally, he lifted the lid of the small box and tipped out the five minor sigils. One was a thin-walled short cylinder that would fit a man’s little finger. The other four were pendants: a square, a pentagon with a hole in its center, a tiny pyramid, and a delicate carving shaped something like a fairy-cap mushroom. All were devoid of the soft radiance of uncanny power.

  Beynor examined each one with interest. They would be extremely useful if the Potency’s abolition of their magic could be reversed. But prudence was called for.

  He opened the purse at his belt and unwrapped the simple moonstone disk. Once it had been fastened to the cover of a book containing informati
on about Great Stones and their activation. The book was gone forever but under certain circumstances the rondelle itself was able to summon the Great Light charged with the care and activation of sigils.

  If the Sky being chose to respond.

  While Garon finished restoring himself, Beynor lowered the wind-barrier guarding his room and cast about with his keen seekersense, overseeing the meeting of battle-commanders. It was unshielded by couverture and the leaders were taking turns making brave speeches asserting their courage and resolve. Even as the Conjure-King watched, the gathering dissolved and the more exalted participants scattered to various parts of the castle to bid farewell to loved ones and deal with other details of departure. High King Conrig led his brother Stergos into a small solar adjacent to the conference room and closed the door. Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook and Prince Dyfrig walked away conversing so discreetly that Beynor was unable to read anything from their lips.

  ‘I’m ready, master,’ Garon said. ‘Shall we try to activate the sigils?’

  Beynor snapped the windthread of his scrying and opened his eyes to find his stalwart henchman standing there transformed into a Brother of the Mystical Order.

  ‘I must warn you, Garon. There could be a risk to both our lives in this attempt, but I think the danger is small. If it does work you’ll have five precious magical tools of your own – subject to the usual conditions of operation, of course.’

  ‘Tell me what to do. I feel lucky!’

  Beynor explained and had Garon rehearse pronunciation of the Salka-language responses to the Light’s ritual queries. When the sorcerer was satisfied, he handed over the disk and the dead Concealer pendant. ‘Try it, then. If the responding Light seems angry, separate the two stones at once and the contact between the Sky and Ground Realms should be severed, preserving you from any harm.’