by Julian May
The younger man pressed the two pieces of moonstone tightly together and held his breath, waiting for them to begin glowing and suffusing him with pain, the first signs that one of the Beaconfolk had taken notice of him. He waited for the inhuman voice to thunder the portentous questions inside his brain.
Nothing happened.
‘Shite!’ Garon moaned. He tried the Interpenetrator sigil, then the three others. The results were the same.
Beynor sighed. ‘What a pity.’ He took back the disk and replaced it in his purse. ‘Keep the dead sigils if you wish,’ he told the disappointed Garon. ‘And don’t look so downhearted. You still have your ten per cent of Kilian’s treasure.’
Garon gripped the golden gammadion pendant at his neck. ‘I suppose this is only a counterfeit without magical powers.’
The Conjure-King’s reply was good-natured. ‘Of course it is, you sodding blockhead! So is my own. Do you think I’d risk using real ones?’
‘I suppose not,’ the other said with a sigh. ‘But I sorely miss the gammadion’s augmentation of my rather mediocre natural talent.’
‘Do you also miss the ability of your former superiors in the Order to track your every move through the damned thing?’ Beynor inquired snidely. ‘Bah! Be my loyal man and I’ll teach you more high sorcery than you ever dreamed of. Well – what do you say? Are you with me?’
‘I accept your offer of employment and agree to serve you to the best of my ability.’ Garon’s eyes flickered. ‘Until we decide that the arrangement is no longer mutually advantageous. ’
‘Done,’ Beynor said. ‘Now put on your raincloak and pack the gold into those new saddlebags, over there. I’ll take charge of the jewels myself. We’ll divide everything up later, when the royal entourage halts for the night.’
‘Royal entourage?’ Garon looked puzzled.
‘We’ll be riding with members of the Sovereign’s personal staff and sharing his accommodation. I’ll disguise our faces with a small spell so no one recognizes us or thinks to ask impudent questions. I don’t think I can risk a genuine shield of couverture. One of the senior Brothers might detect it.’
‘But won’t Lord Stergos be suspicious if two extra Brothers join the group?’
The Conjure-King laughed. ‘I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.’
The summons had come to Vra-Bramlow Wincantor as he broke his fast at dawn with the other novices attached to the Cathran Court. It had been a sad meal, for Bram expected that he would not see his Brethren again for a long time; they were to ride out with the army’s Corps of Alchymists today, while he would have to stay behind, attending his royal mother as the Sovereign had ordered.
The note from Queen Risalla only bade Bram to come at once, so he left his food half-eaten and hastened to Boarsden Castle’s Octagonal Tower and presented himself at her apartment.
‘Please come in, my lord. The Queen’s Grace is very anxious to see you.’ The lady-in-waiting who had opened the door sank in a respectful curtsey to Risalla’s eldest son.
‘Thank you, Lady Sivara.’
The antechamber and large sitting room were crowded with coffers, fully packed panniers, and other baggage, for the queen and her retainers would be quitting Boarsden and returning to Cala Palace as soon as the roads cleared. The novice followed Lady Sivara through the small salon and into the dressing room.
The queen sat on a stool, studying her reflection in a hand-mirror. She was a small, plain-faced woman with brilliant blue eyes and an air of quiet determination. Her hair, once a lustrous honey-brown, was now almost entirely grey, even though she was only one-and-forty. The elaborately bejeweled Didionite coiffure she had worn at last night’s banquet to please her brother Somarus had been transformed into the simpler coronet of braids she had adopted as Queen of Cathra.
Risalla rose, embraced Bramlow, and ordered the ladies and tiring-maids to leave the room. She led her son to a settee and drew him down beside her.
‘Bram, dear, after giving the matter careful thought, I’ve changed my mind. Rather than return to the palace with me, I want you to accompany Corodon and his Heart Companions as they attend the King’s Grace in the defense of Tarn. Your father has acceded to my request.’
He was unable to hide his surprise. ‘But His Grace said that Coro would have to go with the Southern Wing and Earl Marshal Parlian –’
‘My royal husband informed me this morning that he’s had a complete change of heart about about Coro’s aptitudes. He says he misjudged the boy, found hidden depths to his character he never appreciated before. His Grace wants Corodon at his side. And I want you to stay close to your brother.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘I love Coro dearly, but I have no illusions about him. He is the Heritor now, for better or worse. But he doesn’t understand that he might soon face dangers more insidious than the Salka monsters. To survive, he’ll need your help. Magical help.’
‘Mother, I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
Her voice was unsteady. ‘Since the Salka invasion, your father has changed. There’s a new darkness about him, something I can’t express to you in words. It frightens me. And your brother…Coro is not an insightful person, Bram. He never looks beneath the surface of anyone, considering that they might be other than they profess to be. He has no idea how ruthless some people can be if they feel threatened.’
Bramlow took his mother’s hand in both of his. ‘Surely Father can’t see Corodon as a menace! For all his faults, the lad hasn’t a perfidious bone in his body. He idolizes His Grace.’
‘That may be part of the problem.’ The queen looked away, but not before Bramlow had seen a flicker of fear in her eyes.
‘Just what is it you want me to do, Mother?’
‘Safeguard your brother as best you can with your magical talent, even if this means scrying for perils in the most unlikely quarters. I believe Corodon is truly free of malice, but he might be tempted to make disastrous decisions, not realizing the evil inherent in them.’
Vra-Bramlow dropped her hand as though it had become red hot. ‘Tempted by Father? Is that what you mean?’
But Queen Risalla only stared at the sturdy young novice with unblinking eyes, then rose from the couch and went to summon her women.
‘Come and share a stirrup-cup with me before we go, Gossy,’ the Sovereign said. They were alone together in the solar next to the chamber where the rally of battle-leaders had taken place. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’
‘Con, what is it?’ Stergos waited smiling.
The High King filled two silver goblets from a decanter on the sideboard then turned, holding both cups without offering the wine, a frown of deep concern darkening his face.
‘I’ve received some appalling news. Earlier this morning, Beynor informed me that the Salka regular army of fifty thousand strong is being reinforced by a large number of reserve fighters sent from Fenguard.’
‘Great Zeth! Our troops were already outnumbered. But now –’
‘This second force is swimming around the south end of the island to join the others. I haven’t yet told our people since the fact can’t be confirmed – nor do I wish to cast a pall of hopelessness over our new campaign before we even march out of Boarsden.’
‘How did the Conjure-King learn about the reinforcements?’
‘He didn’t say, but it doesn’t matter. The bad tidings just serve to confirm a belief I’d entertained for some time: the only chance we have of defeating this horde of fiends is through sigil sorcery.’
Stergos took a step toward the king, his eyes wide with horror. ‘Brother, no!’
‘Without Ullanoth’s magic, I never would have been victorious in Holt Mallburn. You know that’s true! And our navy would never have defeated the Didionites in the Battle of Cala Bay without the uncanny winds summoned by her Weathermaker.’
‘Ullanoth is dead, Con. Her sigils are lost and so are the ones comprising Darasilo’s Trove. Even if we had any
of the devilish things at our disposal, we lack the means to bring them to life.’
‘Gossy, Beynor has three Great Stones from the trove. I saw them.’
‘No! It’s some trick of his!’ The Doctor Arcanorum clasped his gammadion pendant and besought the wind: Tell me this isn’t true.
It is true, said the Source, as it had to be.
Conrig said, ‘Beynor has had the things for years, apparently, and he knows how to activate them. I know the bastard can’t use the sigils himself. But I can.’
The alchymist was silent, thinking about the windspoken affirmation for a moment before speaking in an incredulous whisper. ‘Beynor has actually offered the stones to you?’
‘Yes.’ The king’s gaze shifted. He still held the filled goblets close to his chest. ‘I had to tell you, Gossy. To learn your reaction. One of Beynor’s conditions for handing the stones over was that you resign as my adviser, retire from my service and not interfere as he teaches me how to use the sigils against our foe.’
Stergos felt as though his soul had fled his body. He seemed to float near the ceiling, looking down upon the two of them, seeing the brilliant red wine inside the silver cups. One cup of wine seemed to shimmer…
He gripped the gammadion tighter and knew. He said: Source, I can’t stop him. His decision is adamant. He’s wanted this for too long. Even if I revealed his secret he would not be stopped. Is this also true?
It is true, as it had to be.
When Stergos was able to speak, his voice seemed to belong to someone else. ‘What sigils does Beynor possess?’
‘A Weathermaker, an Ice-Master that can freeze water – including the fluids within living bodies – and a Destroyer.’
‘A Destroyer.’ Stergos was himself again, calm and unafraid. ‘So you are determined to go ahead with this scheme, even though I beg you with all my heart to abandon it? And I do, Con, for the sake of your own soul’s peace as well as the future of our beloved island.’
‘Nothing you can say will dissuade me. Will you agree to go away – perhaps to Zeth Abbey – and do nothing to hinder me?’
‘I cannot.’ The reply was one of quiet resignation. ‘It is my solemn duty to oppose you openly in this heinous thing.’
Conrig gave a small sigh. He was smiling gently. ‘Well, I don’t have the sigils yet, Gossy. And maybe that slippery viper never intended to give them up at all. This might only be a plot of his to drive us two apart, so that he can insinuate himself into my inner circle of advisers…At any rate, there’s no need for us to discuss this matter further now.’ He held out one of the goblets. ‘Here. Drink with me. Then we’ll mount up and ride out of this cursèd Didionite castle. We’ve tarried here fretting and twiddling our thumbs far too long. I must take action, Brother! I must. Try to understand.’
The Royal Alchymist accepted the cup. ‘Are you certain that this is what you really want?’
‘Yes,’ said the Sovereign. He added in a low voice, ‘I’m sorry.’
Stergos said, ‘As am I. Nevertheless, I give you my blessing, Con, hoping that you may yet realize what it is that you do.’ Then he drank.
Thalassa Dru and Cray emerged from the interface of the subtle corridor into the reality of the castle solar and found him seated in an armchair next to the large leaded window, seeming to look out at the grey and weeping landscape with a serene face. There was no one else in the room.
‘Too late,’ murmured the sorceress sadly.
‘For him and for Conrig Ironcrown as well, I’m afraid.’ The Green Woman stood on tiptoe and closed the eyes of Stergos Wincantor. She then opened the wallet at his belt, searched it, and shook her head. Unfastening the neck of his riding habit, she found the golden chain of his gammadion. A longer thong of leather inside his linen shirt held a small cloth bag. Cray opened it. ‘Empty.’
‘Stergos must have hidden the piece of raw moonstone elsewhere,’ Thalassa said. ‘We’ll never find it.’
‘We’d better get out of here,’ Cray said. ‘His gammadion will already have signaled his demise to the other Brethren.’
‘The Source might know where the bit of Demon Seat mineral is. Are you sure you don’t want to tell him about it – and about Prince Coro’s piece as well?’
‘More certain than ever. Let’s go back to my house. I would like to ask our esteemed leader why he didn’t warn us that our poor friend was in danger of being slain by his own brother!’
‘Why bother?’ Conjure-Princess Thalassa Dru inquired despondently. ‘We already know what he’ll say: Events are unfolding as they must.’
The two of them re-entered the invisible entrance to the subtle corridor and vanished from sight.
FIFTEEN
Duke Kefalus Vandragora had quietly given orders to Baron Ising and to the three men-at-arms escorting Casya Pretender to his north-country fortress: they were not to let his granddaughter out of their sight for a moment. She was a wilful and reckless creature, he said, capable of anything, with bigger bollocks than a man twice her age, an altogether worthy Queen Regnant of Didion – if she might only stay alive long enough to assume the throne.
There was no problem at the first night’s stop, when they all bedded down in a cow byre in the open countryside. But on the second night, when the rain began, they stayed at a little inn on the shore of Firedrake Water where the hostess refused to compromise her notions of propriety. The girl would sleep on a pallet in a storage cubby next to the kitchen, not share a room with the men. A newly installed bolt inside her door would ensure that she slept safe and undisturbed. Since the innwife was a formidable dame with a moustache and muscular arms that could have snapped the spine of a hog, her will prevailed.
Casya went meekly to bed, but she did not sleep. Instead, when the establishment had settled down for the night, she slipped the bolt, crept out through the scullery, and crossed the storm-swept yard to the side entrance of the stable. A dim lantern hung from a cross-beam. In an empty stall she found the simpleminded old man who served as the inn’s ostler, asleep in a pile of hay.
After rousing him with a none-too-gentle nudge of her boot, she knelt, held up a silver quarter-mark coin in front of his face, and whispered, ‘Would you like to have this, my man?’
His bloodshot eyes opened wide. The silver would probably equal his wage for a month. ‘Oh, yes, mistress!’
She rose and stood over him. ‘Then saddle up the sorrel with the white blaze and the big dapple grey. Strap a sack of goodly feed to each cantle, and have the beasts ready to leave here as quick as you can hop.’
‘But why, mistress?’ the ancient whined. ‘The night ain’t half gone and it’s pissin’ rain fit to drown frogs!’
‘Do you want this money or don’t you?’ she snapped. ‘My dear uncle and I were abducted by the three warriors we rode in with. Those scoundrels want me to marry their lecher of a father who’s thirty years older than I. But I intend to escape their evil clutches.’
The ostler chortled. ‘Good for ye, lass!’ Then his face clouded. ‘But what happens t’me in the morn? At best, I’ll get a beatin’ for not raisin’ the alarm.’
‘Before we go, my uncle and I will tie you up and gag you gently and leave you to snooze in your nest. When you’re found, say you were overpowered. Tell the warriors that you heard us say we were heading south, toward Boarsden.’
‘Well…I could do that, I s’pose.’
‘Do you have torch brands available?’ she asked him.
‘Aye, pineheart well plugged with resin. Won’t be quenched easily in the wet. But –’
‘I’ll need four. Lash them to the grey’s saddle with the feed. You’ll get an extra two pennies for the lot and keep the change. I’ll fetch my uncle now and be back directly.’
She left before he could object, re-entered the inn, and slunk up the stairs to the guest accommodation. Loud snoring covered the creak of hinges as she opened the door of the front room.
At the second tweak of his ear, Baron Ising came awake with
a startled grunt. Before he could speak, a hand pressed firmly over his mouth.
‘Not a word!’ Casya whispered fiercely. ‘Up with you. We’re getting out of here. If you make a row and wake the others, I’ll wring your scrawny old neck.’
His eyes, rheumy with sleep, could barely identify her in the darkness of the room he shared with the three warriors. She grabbed the baron’s boots, indicated his bags and cloak with a peremptory gesture, and swept her thumb eloquently toward the open door.
A moment later they were both creeping through the deserted taproom toward the kitchen. He muttered, ‘What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing, you daft wench?’
‘Keep a civil tongue in your head, my lord. I’m not sitting out the Salka war in Grandpa’s castle.’ Casya thrust his boots at him. ‘Put these on while I get my things.’
When she returned with her own saddlebags, dressed in male riding gear, he scowled at her. ‘Your Majesty, you promised Duke Kefalus –’
‘And I intend to break that promise to accomplish a greater good,’ she stated in a wintry voice. ‘Come on.’ She went out the back door with him trailing reluctantly after.
‘What greater good?’ he demanded peevishly, stumbling through the mud. The rain was no longer torrential, but it still fell steadily. One of the tall stable doors was open now and the lantern inside swung in the cold east wind blowing off the big lake, casting moving shadows like spectres. Another lantern, giving much more light, hung at the entry to the inn courtyard just off the highroad. It was intended to guide benighted travelers to shelter, and one like it was required outside every public lodging by the law of the Sovereignty.
When Casya ignored his question, Baron Ising continued to chide her. ‘No one’s going to let you lead a troop of real soldiers into battle, you know! And by now, your gang of friendly brigands have scattered to the four winds. You aren’t Casya the Wold Wraith anymore, luring Somarus’s men on a merry chase through the bogs and moorlands. You’re just a saucy chit waiting to be handed a crown on a platter.’