by Julian May
“But—weren’t you afraid to confront a sorcerer?” Beorbrook asked.
“We don’t know that he was one, Earl Marshal,” Snudge dissembled. “More likely he was just a wind practitioner particularly adept at scrying. A skinny little fellow, but he came at me like a wildcat. I clouted him with a bucket, and then we fought, and he ended up stabbed.”
Beorbrook grunted. “Too bad. It would have been useful to question him. As it is, we’ll make do with Skellhaven, as His Grace suggested. Go back to your seat, lad.” He turned to the prince with hooded eyes. “This is a serious development, and we can only hope that the invasion hasn’t been betrayed. Could this fellow have been an agent of the Conjure-Princess?”
“Hardly,” said Conrig. “Why should she bother, when she herself helped draw up the plan of action? In my opinion, he came from Ullanoth’s younger brother Beynor, who knows she covets the throne of Moss. According to their laws, the reigning monarch may appoint his or her successor. Thus far, King Linndal favors the son, whose arcane powers are supposedly stronger than those of his sister. This is why Ullanoth decided to make her bargain with me.” He paused, then plunged into the lie. “As to how she and I first met, it happened in Thunder Moon, a few weeks after the murder of the delegation to Didion. Stergos and I were taking our ease in a stone pavilion at Brent Lodge after a boar hunt, looking out at a great storm approaching from across the lake. Suddenly the Lady Ullanoth appeared before us in the form of a Sending.”
“That’s a kind of living ghost, is it?” the earl marshal asked.
“Not really. The apparition is quite solid. To Send requires extraordinary talent and strength, such as none of our own alchymists possess.” He lifted his shoulders and smiled. “My brother explained the process, but I have forgotten the details. The lady proposed an alliance, and we discussed the matter at great length while the storm raged around us.”
“This was your only meeting?” Vanguard asked.
“Nay. She came again, and we refined the scheme and discussed every aspect of the invasion, and agreed on the terms of her benefice and guerdon should the venture succeed. She even helped to select the nobles I would invite to participate in the enterprise, including Skellhaven.”
There was a loud knocking at the door. The prince said, “May I take the liberty of instructing your knights, Godfather? I’ve worked out a way the body might be removed without raising suspicion among the others in the dormitorium.”
“Go ahead,” said the duke. When the prince went to the door and was out of hearing, Vanguard spoke to Beorbrook in a low voice. “What do you think, Parli?”
“Disturbing, this Beynor knowing about the council of war. Makes you wonder if Ullanoth has other fish to fry. We’ll have to talk to the doctor, but I reckon he’ll back up his brother’s judgment.”
Both of them had completely forgotten Snudge, sitting motionless in the darkened room.
“The two princes were close as lads,” the duke recalled. “Young Con always the cleverest, knowing what he wanted and often not scrupling at how he got it.”
“I’ll say! That damned wine…”
“Aye. But that ploy might have been my own fault. I refused to detain any nobles who opposed the invasion.”
“And now it’s on, for better or worse, and maybe compromised already. Bloody hell.”
“Well, we still have the option of turning back at Breakneck Pass,” the duke said. “I daresay the witch Ullanoth will keep a close magical eye on events in Didion over the next five weeks. She’ll know if we’re expected by the foe, and give us warning.”
“If it suits her,” the earl marshal said cynically. He fell silent as the prince returned.
“I told them to bring the covered body to the gatehouse armory,” Conrig said. “Let’s fetch Lord Skellhaven and have a look at it.”
I’ve never clapped eyes on the wanker in my life,“ said the seagoing viscount.
Look at him. Just another underdeck swabbie.“ He bent forward suddenly and spread open the body’s blood-stiffened shirt, where a yellow gleam had shone momentarily in the torchlight. ”Booger me! What kind of lackey wears a heavy golden neckchain like this?“
Vanguard and Beorbrook exchanged glances. If Skellhaven did know the identity of the spy, would he have called attention to the betraying chain?
The viscount unfastened the gold from around the corpse’s neck and held it closer to the armory’s sputtering wall torch. “I’ll tell you something about this bauble, Your Grace. It’s Mossbelly-made. Nobody else uses twisted-wire links like these, and the thing’s worth a pretty penny.”
Conrig said, “My lord, did anything unusual take place before you set out to Castle Vanguard, or on the journey?”
“Hmm. We had a problem at one inn a day’s journey from here. A dozen or so of the lads got royal gut-aches after eating rabbit pies that’d turned. They moped and moaned and browned the hedgerows all the next day riding into Castle Vanguard. Some of ‘em still feel a mite seedy.”
Conrig addressed the duke and earl marshal. “My brother Stergos has told me that when a man is ill, he is more susceptible to the spells of a magicker. Perhaps this fellow”—he tapped a dead shoulder—“did away with one of your retainers and took on his identity.”
“It’s possible,” said Skellhaven. “Those few who weren’t sick were in a rare kerfuffle for doing all the extra work and might not have noticed a clever stranger. I sure as hell didn’t.”
“We’d like to believe that.” Conrig’s face was carefully neutral.
The nautical lord’s eyes blazed. “Huh! So you think I might be in league with Didion, do you, Your Grace? Well, you’re wrong! I hate the whoresons and their fancy ships that sail rings around our own while the Diddlies raid our coastal settlements and rape our women. And now that the Wolf’s Breath’s laid the scum low, I say let’s drag ‘em kicking and screaming into the Sovereignty! Civilize Didion once and for all. If you don’t trust me to join your invasion, so be it. But you’ll be losing the services of some of the best fighters in the north country.”
The prince said, “Ride with our force, Hartrig Skellhaven, and welcome.”
The viscount gave a curt nod. “Can I keep the gold chain?”
Conrig and Snudge returned to the darkened library just as the nightwatch called the midnight hour. The great room had grown cold and the fire burned low. Moonlight shone through one of the long windows. The three Heart Companions were snoring among the stacks and the armigers had disappeared upstairs. “Go to your own bed now, Snudge,” whispered the prince. “I’ll disrobe by myself. You’ve done well this day and I won’t forget it. You’re looking rather ill. If you think you might suffer bad dreams over the killing, take a good tot of spirits for a nightcap.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. Do you think I should watch Lord Skellhaven to be sure—
“I believe he’s an honest man, by his own lights. Don’t worry about him. And for heaven’s sake, don’t strain yourself with any more windwatching tonight.”
“The body—”
“The duke will see to it. We’ll say the man died of virulent colic brought on by the dicky rabbit pie. Off you go, now.”
The prince entered his improvised sleeping chamber. The great bed with its brocaded tester and coverlet had to have been disassembled and brought in piece by piece, for it nearly filled the entire scribe’s office. There were tarnsticks on a sidetable beside the candle and he struck one. The thing flared, then died. Damp, probably. Conrig cursed and scratched another against the wood of the table. When it also refused to light, he used his talent to ignite the wick, closed the door, and removed a silver flask from his trussing coffer. He tossed back a hearty swig of malt liquor and sat down on a stool to pull off his boots—
Froze as he felt the presence, smelled the warm green scent of vetiver.
The bed hangings parted, and a lovely narrow face peered out. Her eyes shone like green jade, and her long wavy hair was the color of pearls, covering her b
are breasts like a silken shift.
“You!” he exclaimed, starting to his feet. “Were—were you watching again?”
Smiling, she put up a warning finger. “Hush. We don’t want to disturb the others, my prince. I saw you with Vanguard and Beorbrook and Skellhaven, but I did not eavesdrop, for I cannot do lip-reading. My lips are fashioned for other purposes.”
“Great God, lady—!”
She had left the bed, naked as a fish, and was unfastening his doublet, easing it off, opening his shirt. “All has gone perfectly, hasn’t it? And now you shall tell me everything and then claim your reward.” She opened her arms and the veil of shining hair fell to each side. “I assure you that my Sending enjoys every attribute of my true self.”
The prince felt the blood rising within him. He had to force the words from his throat. “I—I am a married man, and faithful to my vows.”
A laugh, sweetly scornful. “Your sharp-spoken Tarnian wife has given you no children during your six years of marriage, and for some time you have secretly despised her.”
“That’s not true!”
“You have even considered putting her aside, now that the alliance with Tarn is no longer crucial to Cathran state policy.”
“How did you know—”
“I know so many things about you.” She embraced him. Her mouth was hot and tasted of exotic honey. “Are you afraid of me, Conrig Wincantor?”
“No,” he lied, and crushed her to him, returning the kiss.
Snudge lay on his pallet in the room above. He had drunk a fair amount of ardent spirits and his talent was extinct as a result, useless as a blown-out taper. But his mind’s eye still saw a wrathful face, a wide-open mouth full of rotten teeth, ferocious magic glittering in jet-black eyes. He sensed his own doom approaching, cloaked in paralyzing frost, and his windvoice screamed.
Damn you! You won’t! You won’t do that to me!
His dagger vibrated with the last drumbeat throb of a stricken human heart. He heard the frenzied windcry—Beynor!—and those eyes bright with dreadful life turned flat and dull and dead, only to open again and threaten and freeze and die once more.
He prayed for sleep, but it would not come.
Chapter Seven
The king had already closed his eyes when Vra-Kilian Blackhorse came into the royal bedchamber in Cala Palace, scowling like the wrath of God, and commanded everyone to withdraw. The hovering courtiers and Princess Maudrayne and her red-bearded barbarian shaman went out obediently, but Queen Cataldise had no fear of her imperious older brother and refused to budge.
“I won’t have you upsetting the King’s Grace, Kilian,” she said, gentle but inexorable. “He has just taken a sleeping draft. Any news of our troublous son Conrig can wait until morning. Please go away and let us be.”
“It’s all right, Catty,” murmured the king. His eyes opened and he beckoned the Royal Alchymist to come close. The two men were the same age, five-and-fifty; but the monarch was a pale and flabby ruin of a man once stalwart and handsome, while the wizard retained a well-muscled body beneath his scarlet robes, and his close-cut black hair and tidy beard were barely touched with grey.
“I have no news from the Prince Heritor,” Vra-Kilian said dourly. “Stergos was adamant that Conrig would reveal to you the results of the war council’s deliberation only face-to-face. He’s leaving Castle Vanguard on the day after tomorrow, but he has at least three days’ ride ahead of him, perhaps more if the weather turns bad.”
The king gave a groan of dismay. “It’s my own fault. He doesn’t trust me, and small wonder… but I can’t wait for him. Every day’s precious now! I must set out for Zeth Abbey while I still have the strength.” A hand crept out of the bedclothes and gripped that of the alchymist with surprising vigor. The sick man struggled to rise while both Kilian and Cataldise hastened to restrain him. Windspeak Abbas Noachil at once. Tell him to expect me. I will make the Pilgrimage and ask my one Question!“
The alchymist’s dismayed gaze met that of the queen. She shook her head. “He’s spoken of little else since you left us earlier this evening, Brother. Since… the Tarnian healer delivered his final diagnosis.”
“Your Grace,” Kilian said to the king, “your duty to Cathra is to regain your good health, not endanger it by undertaking a long and arduous journey for such a fanciful reason. Abbas Noachil would be the first to tell you that this so-called oracle—”
“Nevertheless,” the king interrupted. “I intend to make the pilgrimage.”
“I forbid it,” said Vra-Kilian. “You are gravely ill. As the Royal Alchymist, charged by Saint Zeth to preserve the spiritual and bodily life of the King’s Grace, it is my obligation—”
“Be silent!” said Olmigon in a voice abruptly loud and resolute. Kilian blinked in amazement. “The cavalcade will leave Cala Palace tomorrow morning at first light. I’ve already commanded the Lord Chamberlain to make all preparations, and you countermand my orders at your peril, Brother-in-Law! This is one time you’ll not get your way. Furthermore, you’ll accompany us on the trip to the abbey so I can be certain you don’t get up to mischief with the Privy Council while I’m gone. Now get out of here and leave me in peace.”
Vra-Kilian inclined his head. “As you command, sire.” Radiating glacial disapproval, he swept out of the chamber.
“Catty?” whispered the king, when the door had closed.
“Yes, my dearest love.” The queen came to him, setting straight his nightcap, which had fallen awry with his exertions, and patted his hand before putting it back beneath the coverlet.
“You don’t think I’m being fanciful, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“That Kilian! Thinking he could forbid me to do something. The man takes too much on himself.”
“He’s only thinking of your welfare,” said the queen.
“Huh! He makes fun of the oracle. Probably Conrig would, too.”
“You must do as you think best, husband.”
“Yes. I’m the king.”
She kissed his cheek. “High King of Blencathra and absolute monarch of my heart.”
He let out a gusty sigh. “Conrig said he’d make me Sovereign of Blenholme. The young idiot!”
“I think not,” Cataldise said firmly.
“So you take the boy’s part, do you?” He spoke with more disappointment than anger.
“Conrig is an extraordinary young man, not a boy. You know that for the truth. Our son is not always tactful, I must admit, but he has a remarkable grasp of statecraft.”
“Damn him! Everyone thinks he’s brainier than I am. You’ll never catch Kilian or Falmire patronizing him in the Privy Council meetings the way they do me.”
“You are wise in your own way, husband. But Conrig’s arguments for Sovereignty were cogent and impressive. Even those members of your council who opposed him conceded the logic of his position—as you did, in the end. It wasn’t Conrig’s fault that… King Achardus responded to the Edict in an uncivilized manner.”
Olmigon turned his face away from her. “I made a terrible mistake, Catty, promulgating the Edict without a show of force. I realize that now. The slaughter of the delegation lies heavy on my conscience. And the sea blockade’s a failure, too, even though Tothor Dundry and his lick-spittles in the Admiralty are too stubborn to admit it. Last week I conferred with other fighting captains—bluewater sailors, not parchment-shuffling peacocks— who weren’t afraid to tell me the truth. There’s calamity brewing. I can feel it in my bones. I’ve never had such a horrid premonition before. Conrig thinks he’s so clever, trying to organize a land invasion of Didion. But what if he’s misread the situation and the real danger threatens us from the sea? What then?”
“The Question you would ask of the oracle,” the queen said in a soothing tone, hoping to distract him. “Will it pertain to our son’s proposed war against Didion? Is it your desire to assist Conrig in some way, perhaps by asking how such an enterprise might best succeed?”
“They are the best military leaders in the kingdom,” Cataldise replied placidly. “He wanted their advice and needs their approval and assistance.”
“But I’m the king.” His words were slurred, and he fought in vain to keep his eyelids open as the sedative drug took effect. “I’m the king, Catty. I don’t give a damn if Con loves me. But he has to respect me. The Question… I’m going to know what’U happen!… Ask old Bazekoy…”
“Yes, love,” said the queen. “Tomorrow we’ll be on our way. But for now, go to sleep.”
Olmigon Wincantor, High King of Blencathra, set out on his pilgrimage during the last week of the Hunter’s Moon, after leaving with the Lord Chancellor a writ commanding Prince Conrig to await his return before undertaking any military action against Didion.
The cavalcade was a modest one. Queen Cataldise and Conrig’s wife, Princess Maudrayne, shared the great coach with the ailing king. Drawn by eight strong horses, it had wheels two ells in diameter and was hung from steel blade-springs to give a more gentle ride. The spacious interior was padded leather, with a bed for the invalid set up along one side and places for the women on the other, together with compartments for all manner of necessary supplies. The Royal Alchymist, the king’s valet, and two lords-in-waiting occupied another coach that followed, and a third bore the Master of Wardrobe, two of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, a tirewoman to deal with the fine laundry, and the Royal Cook. At the last minute, Princess Maudrayne’s chief lady-in-waiting had come down with the grippe and could not join the party, so one of the queen’s ladies was commanded to attend her. Ten knights of the household rode horseback at the head of the procession, and at the rear was a contingent of the King’s Guard and a dozen minor retainers.
The procession moved northwestward over the excellent Cathran highroads. Vra-Kilian estimated that it would take ten days to travel the three hundred leagues to Zeth, moving slowly but steadily. They would press on well into dusk, when spunkie lights rose from the hedgerows and swales and danced in the ground-mists, until they reached a suitable castle or large manor house, whose resident windvoice had received advance notice from the Royal Alchymist of the king’s imminent arrival. The train would continue on its journey at dawn the following morning.