Sorcerer's Moon

by Julian May

  ‘FASH AH!’ a soft voice said. Dyfrig froze with shock as his body disappeared and he was pulled through the door, which closed by itself behind him. ‘Just relax and hold onto me, Your Grace. We must hurry out of here. Even invisible, we cast a slight shadow in the torchlight.’

  The prince let himself be drawn to the exit at the end of the corridor that gave into the disused wing. It had apparently been fastened shut with a large iron hasp and padlock and also barred with a stout oaken plank. But the lock opened without a sound and the wooden bar had been twice severed in an ingenious fashion and fixed back in place, so that the door might swing freely open while it still seemed secured.

  ‘Quickly.’ Deveron urged him. ‘Someone is about to emerge from the Sovereign’s room.’

  In an instant they were safe on the other side, hastening through the dark toward a faint thread of golden light glimmering beneath a closed door.

  ‘BI FYSINEK. KRUF AH!’ The words dissolved Concealer’s spell.

  Before Deveron could stop him, Prince Dyfrig tore the door wide open. He saw a fully armed knight wearing a surcoat with the Beorbrook blazon seated on a bench, gingerly using a dagger to pare dirt from beneath his fingernails. Lamplight showed a face beneath the helmet’s eyeguard that was pale and beardless.

  The prince glanced wildly about the dim room. ‘Where is my mother?’ he demanded. ‘What have you done with her?’

  The knight stood up slowly, placing the dagger on the table. He was almost six feet tall, with narrow shoulders and a slender build. After lifting off his helm, he stripped away the mail hood and untied the padded leather coif beneath, releasing a coil of shining auburn hair.

  ‘I am Maudrayne,’ the knight said to the dumfounded prince, ‘come to you in this guise so my enemies would not know me. But I’d recognize you anywhere, my dearest son, for you are the image of your father when I first laid eyes on him long years ago.’

  She held out her arms. With an inarticulate cry, Dyfrig fell to his knees before her and kissed her roughened hands, bathing them with tears.

  ‘I’ll leave you,’ Deveron said. ‘I’ll wait outside in the stableyard, invisible, near the storm-vestibule of this wing, guarding your privacy from intruders. When you wish me to return, knock softly three times on the outer door.’ He left them together.

  Maude drew her son to his feet and hugged him with mailed arms – which made him cry out in surprise, then burst into laughter. She kissed his lips, his damp cheeks, and his brow. ‘You received my letter,’ she said at length, returning to the bench.

  Dyfrig pulled up a stool and seated himself before her. He drew the gold locket on its chain from the neck of his tunic, and held it up so that it gleamed in the lamplight. ‘I will always wear it next to my heart, Mother, and pray peaceful repose for the brave soul of Rusgann, who carried it so far. If only she could have given it into my hands!…But it was not to be. Sir Deveron brought this to me.’

  ‘Rusgann is dead?’ At his nod of acquiescence, her eyelids closed and she uttered a wordless cry of woe. For a time she sat with head bowed, her lips moving silently. Then she looked up, wiping her eyes, and bade Dyfrig tell him of her friend’s fate.

  Briefly, he related how Rusgann had been captured by Lord Catclaw, scourged nearly to death, and rescued too late by Sir Deveron and his wife, Sealady Induna. ‘Rusgann’s body was buried by them among rocks. One day we’ll make a proper tomb for her, Mother. Her courage will be celebrated by bards and the tellers of heroic tales.’

  ‘He was the ultimate cause of her suffering and death,’ Maudrayne murmured, her eyes gone flat and cold.

  Mistaking her meaning, Dyfrig said, ‘Her killers – including the Lord Constable – paid the ultimate penalty for their crime. Sir Deveron slew them to a man so none could report to the High King that Rusgann carried a message from you to me.’

  ‘Were you surprised by the letter’s contents?’ she asked him.

  He tucked the locket back into its hiding place. ‘I was not surprised to learn that I’m the Sovereign’s true first-born. The rumors about my paternity came to me early, and when I understood their portent I asked my father – my true father, Lord Parlian – what the truth might be. He would say only that I was declared a royal bastard by the High King’s own decree, and this was done for the peace of the realm, and that he and his wife, the late Duchess Falise, loved me with all their hearts and wanted me to inherit the marshalship that was the pride of their family.’

  ‘I was told this by my captor,’ Maudrayne said, ‘and took comfort in the fact that you had been adopted by noble and kindly persons. But…did you find other things in the letter that moved you?’

  ‘Some of what you wrote was joyous news: that you lived and were in good health and that we might someday meet again. Some words shocked me profoundly: the Sovereign’s unconscionable treatment of you, the knowledge that he possesses uncanny talent and by law cannot sit the throne of Cathra.’

  Maude’s sea-green eyes glittered and her speech became almost breathless in its urgency. ‘And what have you decided to do about that dire knowledge? Will you confront Conrig with it and demand justice, as is your right? I could stay with you, disguised, and we two could plan how best to overthrow the High King in the encampment at Lake of Shadows.’

  He caught her slender, grimy hands in his own powerful ones, bowing over them. Again she felt his tears. ‘Dearest Mother, I’ve given deep thought to this weighty matter. I also consulted Deveron Austrey, the witness you commended to me, as well as my father the earl marshal. Amongst us we have concluded that attempting to pull down Conrig Ironcrown at this pivotal point in our island’s history would place all of Blenholme’s people in grave danger.’

  ‘Oh! But surely –’

  ‘Please listen to me,’ he broke in with insistent firmness. ‘We are threatened not only by Salka monsters but also by evil beings of the Sky Realm who are engaged in a mysterious Conflict of their own. Sir Deveron and his wife have told me that the Beaconfolk enslaved the Salka and the other inhuman creatures who lived on our island in prehistoric times. They did this through dark sorcery. And now they hope to enslave humankind as well, using Salka as their agents.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Maudrayne demanded in a voice of ice. She pulled away from him and climbed to her feet. ‘Are you foolish enough to believe that only Conrig Wincantor is able to defeat the Salka horde?’

  ‘He’s the only leader strong enough to unite the island nations.’

  ‘That liar?’ she cried in scorn. ‘That heartless blackguard who commanded that his own tiny son, the heir to his throne, be put to death in order that his shameful secret not be revealed? Who on Blenholme would follow Conrig Ironcrown if the truth about him were known? No one! You could lead the Army of the Sovereignty to victory yourself! You, Dyfrig! This is your destiny. Seize it!’

  ‘If I claimed the High Kingship,’ he said simply, ‘the great lords would not accept me outright. There would have to be a second trial proving Conrig attainted. He was acquitted of the charge once before.’

  ‘But this time, I’m here to speak for myself! Sealord Sernin and the other Tarnian leaders, people who love and revere me, know the truth of my allegation. They can be given status to testify if the Lords Judicial of Cathra agree to it. And you also have Deveron and Stergos Wincantor, the king’s own brother, as witnesses –’

  ‘Lord Stergos is dead, Mother. This very morning he perished when his heart failed. And Sir Deveron has been an outlaw with a price on his head for sixteen years.’

  ‘There must be a way!’ She was near weeping with disappointment and rage as she saw her great hopes for him dissolving. ‘I can’t believe you’d give up your heritage! Seeing justice done for you has been my only reason for living. Was my sacrifice for naught, Dyfrig?’

  ‘Never!’ he exclaimed. ‘And the day may yet come when I can claim Cathra’s throne with a clear conscience. But not now. We’re at war, Mother. If I attack King Conrig I only give
a weapon to political foes who’d destroy the union that’s kept Blenholme strong. Didion would repudiate the Edict of Sovereignty in a trice. Its shortsighted leaders think the Salka now only intend to attack Tarn, so they’d stand back while others defend that nation. And what would Conrig himself do if I proclaimed myself the true Sovereign? Do you really think he’d submit tamely and hand over his Iron Crown?…Nay, I think he’d slay me with his own hand, bringing on such dissension among the Cathran peerage that waging the war would become nigh impossible.’

  ‘And you would not defend yourself if he attacked your person?’ Her query was now almost wistful, for she knew the answer. Conrig and Dyfrig were not alike for all that they were mirror images of each other. Not alike in their hearts, nor in their souls. The father would readily kill his son in cold blood, but the son would be unable to harm his father.

  ‘Mother, let it be,’ he said softly. ‘You must let it be.’

  ‘You are the rightful Sovereign of Blenholme.’ Her words were forlorn, pleading.

  ‘If I sat the throne, the welfare of our island and its people would be my foremost concern. And so it is now, when I’m a mere bastard prince. My own rights must always come second in my mind. Believe what I say.’

  She stared at him for a long moment before looking away and speaking in a toneless voice. ‘I do believe you. And I understand your decision, while deploring it. You must do as you think best.’

  And so must I.

  ‘God be thanked!’ He hastened to add, ‘As I said, now is not the time for me to press my claim. Later, when the Salka are defeated…’ He trailed off. ‘Who can say?’

  She sighed. ‘Who, indeed.’ She subsided back onto the bench. ‘Sit down again, my darling boy. Please, be of good cheer. I’m sorry if my zeal, my burning desire to see you in your proper place, has caused distress at this difficult point in your life. Our reunion should have been a joyous thing and I’ve spoiled it.’

  ‘Nothing can diminish my happiness at seeing you again.’ He sat beside her on the bench, once more taking her by the hand. ‘I saw your face often in my dreams, and you’ve not changed at all. Would you like to know my favorite dream of you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s of the time we escaped those two rascally fishermen who would have kidnapped us and killed Rusgann near the sea-hag’s steading in Tarn. You fought so bravely and slew one and marooned the other. Then we all sailed away and were free for a while. I dream of you standing at the wheel of the lugger you took away from the villains. Your hair streams in the wind and your face is damp with spray and you and Rusgann are laughing. I’m a very small boy, snuggled down safely in a smelly old blanket in the bottom of the boat, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been before.’

  ‘I remember,’ she said, and sat in silence for a time. Then: ‘But let’s not spend our precious time reminiscing. Tell me of your life nowadays! You’re a belted knight. Do you have special duties under your father, Earl Marshal Parlian?’

  ‘You might like to know of an expedition I carried out recently,’ he said, relieved that she seemed to have abandoned the thornier topic. He launched himself into a colorful narrative of the Green Morass, and the encounter with the great worms. When he concluded the account with his official commendation at the feast, they spoke about what she would do now that she had escaped Tinnis Catclaw’s captivity.

  Knowing now that he would never abandon his military duties even for her sake, she again expressed her wish to remain close to him during the upcoming campaign, disguised as a man. When he made no response, she broached reluctantly Deveron’s suggestion that she might seek sanctuary with the Green Men. Dyfrig seized on it with an eagerness that bordered on the unseemly.

  ‘Yes! That would be the wisest course, Mother. If you were to accompany me in the new deployment of the Southern Wing of the army, I’d worry constantly that your identity might be discovered. I long to have you near me, but the Sovereign has fanatic partisans, even among the forces of Earl Marshal Parlian. We can send letters secretly to each other, of course. As soon as it’s possible, I’ll come to fetch you. We’ll find a permanent safe home for you in your Uncle Sernin’s palace in Donorvale. No one but he and I and Sir Deveron and his wife need know who you are.’

  Her reply was unexpectedly docile. ‘I’ll do as you want, knowing it will keep you from being troubled about my safety.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s the best thing for both of us.’ He stood. ‘And now we should say farewell for the nonce. If I don’t return to our room soon, the earl marshal may seek me out.’

  ‘Dearest son!’ She sprang up and threw her arms about his neck. ‘Seeing you, speaking to you, touching you again after so many barren years has given me more joy than you can conceive of. So kiss me one final time and then leave me. I’ll summon Deveron when you’re safe away and he’ll lead me from Rockyford invisible, as he brought me.’

  ‘Let me call him for you.’

  ‘No.’ Her face shone with tears. ‘I wish to sit here for a few minutes more, regaining my composure.’

  ‘Of course.’ They clung to one another, then he guided her back to the bench, spoke a blessing, and took his leave.

  She waited, listening at the door, until she was certain he’d gone. Donning her coif and mail hood again, she left the helmet on the table. It hid too much of her face and she wanted to be recognized.

  After sheathing her dagger and slipping on her gauntlets, she departed the squalid chamber, having left its door open slightly so that light from the lantern relieved the inky darkness outside. The heavy door that led into the way station proper yielded to her touch and cracked open without a sound. She peered through, praying that Sir Deveron would remain at his post outside in the stableyard and not come looking for her.

  Guttering torches revealed a stone corridor with six doors along the righthand wall, all so widely separated that they must lead to spacious quarters. The most distant chamber had stacks of dirty platters, dishes, and drinking vessels on the floor outside its entrance. No one was in view, but she heard the sound of voices echoing from the vaulted ceiling.

  She eased through the door, closed it, and pricked up her ears. Guardsmen, on station out of sight around the far corner, were bemoaning their ill luck at having to stand night watch while their mates slept – as if anyone would dare break into this stronghold while it was surrounded by thousands of troops!

  She wondered which room was his. Would he be sleeping alone?

  Maudrayne studied the floor of the corridor, beginning with the stone paving beneath her own feet. Most of it was fairly clean; the mud tracked in from the outside by those entering the station’s front door had been left in other parts of the building. But an obvious trail of filthy bootprints led from where she stood, at the supposedly barred portal of the disused wing, to the fourth door down. That, she deduced, must be the chamber occupied by Dyfrig and Parlian Beorbrook.

  Would the next door lead to the High Sealord’s room? And the one beyond that, with the discarded dinnerware outside, lead to Conrig’s?

  I’ll have to chance it, she said to herself, and be damned quick about it, too.

  Drawing her slender varg blade, Maudrayne went as lightly as she could. When she reached the last door, she rapped on it with the hilt of the sword.

  ‘Who the bloody hell is it?’ someone called out. It was a familiar voice – one that made her heart leap, her breath catch, and her resolution falter.

  ‘It’s Corodon, Father,’ she said in slurred tones. ‘I must speak to you.’

  ‘I was asleep, you futtering young idiot!’

  ‘It’s very important. Please!’

  There were growled imprecations from inside and a faint crash as some small object fell to the floor. After a few moments the door was flung open and he stood there in a loose woolen nightshirt and fur-lined slippers, his wheaten hair disheveled from the pillow and his dark eyes slitted with vexation. At the sight of her, his jaw dropped.

  With the
curved sword at her side, she spoke in a soft, rich voice, as she’d spoken to him long ago during their nights of blissful passion, when their love was fierce and strong, before his vaulting ambition and impatience for an heir turned him against her; before her wounded pride made her shrewish and vengeful.

  ‘Conrig. Do you know me? I’ve come back to you, my husband. Maude, the wife whom you thought was dead.’

  ‘No!’ he gasped, taking two steps backward. ‘Impossible!’ But his expression betrayed him. He knew her.

  She followed him, whipping the gleaming varg up and holding the tip an inch from his body, just below his breastbone. ‘I’ve come for justice,’ she hissed. ‘For myself and for our son Dyfrig, who is the true-born Sovereign of Blenholme. You disowned him! You, a man stained by hidden talent. I begged Dyfrig to reclaim his heritage but he refused, out of a foolish misplaced loyalty. He wouldn’t take your Iron Crown. So I shall give it to him.’

  She lunged with all her might. He dodged but felt an explosion of agony as the sword raked his ribs and penetrated deep into the flesh along his left side. The voluminous nightshirt had defeated her thrust to his heart.

  ‘Guards!’ He bellowed. ‘Help! Royal Guardsmen, to your king! Help!’

  Conrig toppled, bringing her down with him, and rolled away with the blade still caught in his body. His bladder gave way. As he lay on the stones in a puddle of urine and blood, roaring and cursing, Maude leapt to her feet and yanked the varg free. Scarlet stained the long cut in his shirt but the wound was obviously not a mortal one; he was making too much noise.

  Before she could strike again someone came pounding around the corner of the passageway. She whirled and saw a single member of the Royal Guard, armed with a long halberd. A deadly morningstar hung at his belt, its ball studded with iron spikes sheathed in a leather pouch. He swung the pole-axe at her wildly, striking the doorjamb a glancing blow. She ducked, hopped out into the corridor, and sliced open his unarmored shin with her sword. As he lurched, screaming and scattering the stacked stoneware dishes in all directions, she came at him and smote off his right hand. Blood fountained from the stump, splattering her from head to toe, and the halberd clattered to the floor. He was able to pull the morningstar from his belt before he collapsed, but lost his grip on it and sent the weapon flying across the corridor. As he writhed on his back, she sank her blade into his vulnerable throat.