by Julian May
It passed through Wincantor Duchy’s stubbled grain fields, now with cattle and sheep turned out in them to glean fallen corn and enrich the soil with their manure. Further north, the acreage was striped black and green, burnt-over fallow fields and those sown with winter wheat. In the orchard country of the Blen River valley, mills were crushing fruit and barreling the juice, filling the air with the luscious scent of fermenting cider and perry. The last crops were being harvested from the market gardens, and farm wagons loaded with cabbages, beets, carrots, and onions trundled south toward Cala, pulling onto the verge to allow the king’s party to pass in the opposite direction. After crossing the great bridge at Heathley, the train came into hill country, upland pastures where the island’s finest blood-horses were bred, and rougher places where sheep grazed.
At every town and village along the way, free folk and serfs gathered along the roadside in silent respect. But no one cheered and no children strewed the way with autumn flowers, for Olmigon was not a ruler beloved by the commonalty— nor by the burgesses and nobles, either. He was apparently fated to be remembered as a remote, self-absorbed king of no distinction, controlled by venal and self-serving advisers, loved only by a handful of intimate courtiers, most of his children, and the two royal women who attended him on this final pilgrimage.
Olmigon himself was not unaware of this melancholy state of affairs but had always managed to shunt it aside—until the Tarnian shaman dared to pronounce his death sentence. At that point inspiration had come to him, vivid as a bolt of lightning. In asking his one Question, foolish old King Olmigon Wincantor believed he had one last chance at glory.
Ironically, he was correct.
The road steepened and became more narrow as the entourage left settled lands and approached the looming ramparts of the Bladewind Crags, which gleamed white in the hazy sun. By the tenth day of the journey, the route had become little more than a rutted, rocky track. From time to time the royal coach lurched violently, causing the sick man to utter soft moans. But when the queen and princess bent over him they saw that he continued to sleep soundly.
“Red Ansel’s medicine is still doing its good work,” Princess Maudrayne said, touching the king’s brow. “There is no fever or sweating. Let us check the belly-binding.”
“The healer should have come with us,” Queen Cataldise said resentfully. “You should have insisted. What kind of a doctor abandons his patient?”
“Ansel had done all he could for the King’s Grace. He was urgently needed at the bedside of the Tarnian ambassador’s small daughter. If need be, Vra-Kilian can windspeak him for medical consultation at any time.”
“It’s not the same thing,” the queen fussed. “His obligation is to my husband and to the Crown, who will be paying his fee as well as his traveling expenses— not to a mere sick child.”
Maudrayne said coldly, “A man such as Ansel Pikan is not a hired hand nor a common doctor to be ordered about like a servant. In my country he’s reckoned a mystical healer of the highest degree, more revered than your Abbas of Zeth. He came to Cala because I besought him from the bottom of my heart—not because of any promised stipend. Yes, I intend to reward him well! But I will do it from my own treasure. Is that quite clear? And if Ansel chooses to use his healing powers on a mere sick child in the meantime, that’s his business and none of the Crown’s.”
“Hmph!” said the queen, unmollified.
The women were not friends, as happens often enough with wife and husband’s mother, but thus far on the long journey they had contrived to keep peace between themselves for the sake of the dying man whom both of them loved. Cataldise Blackhorse was of ancient Cathran stock, a small person, deceptively mild in demeanor, rosy-cheeked and stout but with iron-colored eyes and a will to match. She was the one who had begged Olmigon to appoint her brother Vra-Kilian to the post of Royal Alchymist. The king had been unable to resist her plea, to his lasting regret. Until Conrig came of age and became Lord Constable, Kilian had dominated the Privy Council through sheer force of personality. The prince and the wizard had been at loggerheads ever since, with Olmigon frequently caught in the middle.
Princess Maudrayne Northkeep was the favorite niece of Sernin Donorvale, the dauntless First Sealord of Tarn. Tall as a man, with high breasts, curling auburn tresses, and piercing blue eyes, she was so lovely that Conrig would choose none other from among the eligible Tarnian maidens—in spite of her reputation as a short-tempered hellcat with a tongue like a rapier. Their mating had been a clash of titans, wildly ecstatic at first, then tempestuous as the Prince Heritor became obsessed with achieving the Sovereignty of Blenholme and spent less and less time with his demanding wife. Of late, their relations had been not so much stormy as detached and ominously formal. And Maudrayne knew why.
Her apparent inability to conceive a child had frightened and infuriated the princess. Her temper soured and her desperation grew as Conrig’s ardor cooled. He still treated her with respect, but they bedded joylessly now, only in hopes of engendering an heir to the throne. Oddly, as the princess became estranged from her ambitious husband, she drew closer to the morose and suffering king—two tormented souls who had begun to fear that they had failed in their duty through fault of their own.
Maudrayne now carefully uncovered Olmigon’s abdomen and examined the stout truss contrived by the Tarnian healer that now confined the ruptured bowel to its natural place. Then she restored the king’s garments and the covering. “All is in order with the binding. His Grace seems much improved the last few days, no doubt buoyed up by anticipation.”
Queen Cataldise gave the younger woman a hard glance. “And what will happen when his hopes are dashed? My husband would have been content to remain safely in Cala if your uncouth witch-doctor had kept a tactful tongue in his head.”
“Ansel only spoke the truth,” Maudrayne retorted, “as must all of his kind. The King’s Grace asked plainly how many days were left to him. In my homeland, the dying have a right to know this, so that they may put their affairs in order. It’s a stupid Cathran custom that healers should lie to the patient about impending death, out of misplaced kindness.”
“So you say, madam! And I say your custom is cruel to deny all hope of remission or recovery. Is your precious Ansel a seer as well as a physician, to state positively that my royal husband will surely die within two moons—making him determined to undertake this vain journey that can only hasten his demise and perhaps disrupt the peace of the realm?”
“Red Ansel is indeed a seer,” Maudrayne shot back. “A mighty practitioner of both natural and supernatural science. He did the king good service, and only an ingrate would speak ill of it. As to the pilgrimage, if it comforts Olmigon’s uneasy heart, how can it be vain? I thought you approved.”
“Approve? Bah! Any educated person knows that the Promise of Bazekoy is only an ancient superstition. No Cathran monarch for the past three hundred years has given the oracle credence—only my poor simple-hearted darling. Yet I could not distress him by telling him so.”
“The king has a right to ask his Question. So said Abbas Noachil himself, when windspoken by the Royal Alchymist. Call it superstition if you dare, madam. 1 say this pilgrimage will give the king consolation in his final days.”
“And shorten his life!”
“He knew the price and accepted it. So must you. If his Question receives a clear and felicitous answer, it may bring solace to the Cathran people as well as to His Grace.”
“If we only knew what he intends to ask!” the queen fumed. “But he won’t say. What if the oracle stands mute? Worse, what if it’s only some ancient charade once countenanced by the Brothers of Zeth, but now, in this more enlightened age, become mercifully obsolete?”
“The king will ask his Question,” Maudrayne repeated. “Abbas Noachil conceded him that right, but he did not say whether there would be an answer. Thus it is with all prayers. And yet we continue to storm heaven, madam—you and I as well as the king.”
“I never counseled my son to put you aside for barrenness,” the queen said in a low voice. “Nor did the king. Both you and Conrig are young. There is time for you to have children.”
“That’s true. Remind your son of it! Ah, God—if only I could put my own Question to Bazekoy! I know what I would ask. But the emperor’s oracle only speaks to a dying ruler of Cathra. The rest of us can only petition the unseen, silent God and try not to despair.”
Chapter Eight
The cavalcade arrived at the gate of Zeth Abbey at the end of a dreary, overcast afternoon. The animals and most of the travelers were bone-tired and covered with grey dust, the latter a legacy of the Wolf’s Breath. The periodic bouts of falling ash had afflicted this region of the kingdom more than the parts farther south, strewing the ground with pale patches like thin frost, even after summer thunderstorms and the soft rains of autumn had washed much of it away. In a fine paradox, the ash greatly enriched the soil; but only when the Wolf’s Breath ceased to dim the sun would folk reap its benefits.
King Olmigon had roused as the coach covered the final league of the journey, taking both water and nourishment and declaring that his pain was much diminished. When they rolled into the abbey, his mind was clear and his spirits high. Abbas Noachil, a stooped ancient with shrewd, bird-like eyes, stood in the forecourt with all of the resident Brethren to welcome the royal party.
Supported by the two lords-in-waiting, Olmigon alighted from the carriage, then settled into an open chair-litter that would be borne by four of the red-cowled Brothers. The queen and princess flanked him and the Royal Alchymist hovered behind. Olmigon was dressed in a loose gown of white velvet, having a hood edged with blue fox fur. As befitted a pilgrim, he wore no crown and no ornament. A wooden disk with the gammadion’s voided cross burnt into it hung from his neck by a leather thong. His hair and beard were a dingy yellowish color and sadly sparse, and weight-loss occasioned by the rigors of the trip had left his face seamed and wrinkled as a withered apple. His eyes were opaque hazel pebbles sunk in rheumy pits.
“God’s peace and the blessing of Saint Zeth be upon you,” Abbas Noachil said. “Who are you, and why have you come to this holy place?” The question was a formality, because the Royal Alchymist had windspoken the progress of the procession to Noachil every day it was en route. But it was necessary that the king make his unusual request with his own lips.
“I am Olmigon Wincantor, High King of Blencathra.” His voice was little more than a whisper, but without tremor or hesitation. “I have come here, where Bazekoy the Great, Emperor of the World, breathed his last, in order to ask my one Question and receive a true answer, as is my right. Know that my own body is failing, and I am prepared to sing my Deathsong at any time, and grant me prompt audience so that my request may be fulfilled.”
“Enter the Abbey of Zeth,” Noachil said, lifting his staff in blessing, “and follow me to the imperial sepulchre.”
The assembled Brethren began a solemn chant, and the king was carried up a shallow flight of stairs and into the cloister that led to the emperor’s mausoleum, which was built of native limestone like the rest of the abbey. At the bronze doors decorated with scenes from Bazekoy’s life, a waiting Brother gently restrained Queen Cataldise and Princess Maudrayne.
“No lay persons may enter during the questioning,” the abbas explained. “Later, you royal ladies may venerate the emperor’s ashes and pray to his spirit, but for now I ask you to accompany Prior Waringlow to the guest-hall.”
A brief look of resentment crossed the face of the princess, who had made no secret of her desire to view the mysterious oracle. But Queen Cataldise said, “Come, Daughter,” taking her elbow, and they went away.
Abbas Noachil said to the king, “Your Royal Alchymist, Vra-Kilian, may attend the rite, if you wish.”
Olmigon said, “No! And I command that no man will hear my Question or know the answer until I deign to reveal it. Not even you, Father Abbas. I pray you conjure up a spell of couverture to shield me from windwatching during the consultation.”
“It shall be done.”
Kilian opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it with an audible click of teeth and spun on his heel to follow the women. He had tried to ascertain the king’s Question many times during the trip, without success.
Noachil lifted his staff and smote the bronze door three times. It opened of itself, revealing a vaulted interior lit with scores of candles that burned within blue glass vessels hanging from gilt chains. The stone pillars of the shrine were iridescent black iris-stone from Foraile, and the floor was a complex mosaic of lustrous gold and white tiles. At the far end of the mausoleum, which might have been thirty ells square and at least that in ceiling height, rose a dais with a titanic statue of the emperor, carved from marble and lit by azure lamps. The brothers carried King Olmigon to the statue’s feet, where a marker was embedded in the floor.
“Beneath this plaque lie the ashes of Bazekoy’s body,” said the abbas. “You may pray for a time, if you desire.”
“Is it here that I pose my Question?” the king asked, seeming rather disappointed.
“No. That will be done in the chapel to your right.”
“Then let’s get on with it,” Olmigon said peevishly. “Time enough for prayers later. The pain’s coming on again, and I don’t want to pass out before getting what I came for.”
Noachil was not offended. In fact, he smiled. “So might the emperor himself have said, in your place. He was never known as a patient man.”
He made a sign to the bearers and they carried the king to a dim alcove, shut off from the main chamber by a wrought-iron gate. Unlocking this, the abbas went to a low altar that held a domed golden reliquary about two feet high. On either side were large candlesticks surmounted by blue glass cups with chill flames burning inside. After the brothers had backed off reverently through the gate and retreated out of sight, the abbas unlocked the reliquary and swung its doors wide.
Inside was a sizable crystal urn full of liquid, in which floated a human head.
“God’s Teeth!” whispered Olmigon.
Abbas Noachil made a brief, almost playful obeisance to the altar. “Good day, Imperial Majesty. I trust you continue to rest in peace. May I present Olmigon Wincantor, High King of Blencathra, here to ask his alloted Question ere he sings his Deathsong. If it be God’s will, give him answer.” The abbas handed the king a silver bell, directing him to ring it when he had finished, and withdrew from the chapel.
Olmigon felt no awe at this supreme moment, only a quizzical detachment. Could the head actually be real? It seemed made of wax, with an inhuman translucence to the flesh. The eyes were closed. Abundant hair, grey and slightly wavy, floated from beneath an archaic crowned helmet ornamented with rubies and huge blue pearls. Bazekoy the Great had a neatly trimmed moustache and thick sensuous lips that almost seemed to smile. Like so many Foraileans, he had a broad, snub nose.
“But your body burned in its funeral pyre,” the king said softly. “So how came your head here? If this really is your head…”
The eyes opened: very large, very blue like the candleflames in their sapphire cups.
Is that your one Question, Olmigon Wincantor?
The king started like one touched by a burning coal. “No! My God, no!”
A judicious nod. Then I’ll answer gratis, for you’re the first to seek my counsel in three centuries, and I thought I might have been forgotten!… A dream of strange Lights instructed me to render up my life here, on the island where my great conquests began. I came to this place, as directed, when it was a mere hermitage, and my warriors prepared for me the traditional funeral pyre of my people. But before my body was burned the resident wizard secretly removed my head and preserved it, so that I might literally fulfil a rash promise made on my deathbed. That impudent magicker was the one you name Saint Zeth, an
d I hold him no ill will, for through his boldness I was able to advise and console many a Cathran ruler face-to-face… until the times changed. Times do change, Olmigon! And a wise man accommodates himself and doesn’t cling to worn-out ways and customs. A truly great man, on the other hand, not only accommodates, but uses change to get what he wants.
“So said my son Conrig.” The king winced at a momentary stab of pain in his guts. “Damned ambitious pup! Wants to be Sovereign of Blenholme—wants glory, like you had.”
Bazekoy smiled. You’re jealous, old man.
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
Jealous! Because your son’s vision is greater than yours could ever be. Because he overrode your pissy-arsed objections and forced you to issue the Edict of Sovereignty. Admit the truth of what I say!
It was a small-minded attempt to exert power that led you to overrule Conrig’s plan to send a well-armed delegation to King Achardus. Sheer bloody-mindedness— or else malice, wishing his ploy to fail. Do you deny it?
“I came here hoping to help my son!”
Nonsense. You came hoping to justify yourself-—to Conrig and to history.
Olmigon took a furious breath, intending to defend himself against the oracle’s insults. But a terrible wave of agony swept over him, making him writhe, squelching his pride and leaving any notion of defiance in tatters.
You are dying, the apparition said implacably. Stop deceiving yourself. For most of your reign, you’ve been a silly fool, surrounding yourself with councilors such as your brother-in-law who flattered and manipulated you to their own selfish ends. When you were finally obliged to admit the Prince Heritor to your Privy Council, you were frightened by the strength of his character and the boldness of his plans. And envious! For shame, old man.