Conqueror's Moon

by Julian May

  Conrig blocked the wizard’s progress. “I think not.” Firmly, he removed Kilian’s hand from the queen’s arm, ignoring his indignant expostulation. “Go in alone, Mother. It’s the king’s wish.” He then nodded to the four guardsmen, who stepped in front of the door as the queen passed through, unsheathing their swords.

  Kilian drew himself up furiously, locking eyes with the prince. It was the selfsame coercive and obdurate glare, fraught with uncanny menace, that had so intimidated Conrig when he was a boy. The wizard exclaimed, “Do you dare to forbid me access to His Grace? Stand aside, you men!”

  The guards stood their ground.

  Conrig said. “King Olmigon has told me plainly that he no longer requires your services, either as a physician or an adviser. Furthermore, it is the king’s command that you accompany me now to an extraordinary meeting of the Privy Council which I have called.”

  There were gasps from the assembled retainers.

  “I don’t believe you!” Kilian said.

  “Believe it,” the prince retorted. His face was like iron and his voice became very soft. “It would be unseemly—and quite useless—for you to use magic to force your way into the royal bedchamber. The king and I now speak with one voice, and I carry his writ to that effect. Come! It’s very late, and the other members of the Privy Council are waiting for us.” Conrig paused, and a cold smile touched his lips. “Of course, if you’re too… weary after your long journey to attend the meeting in person, you may retire to your chambers and windwatch the proceedings.”

  For an instant, black hatred flashed in Kilian’s eyes. Then he lowered them and spoke with respectful submissiveness. “Of course I’ll come.” The two of them strode off together down the corridor.

  Chapter Ten

  The long return trip to the capital from Zeth Abbey had been a trying ordeal for Princess Maudrayne. The king had suffered great agitation of mind, clearly the result of the oracle’s pronouncement, which he would not discuss. Along with his anxiety, Olmigon’s pain intensified and he required more and more of the Tarnian healer’s soothing elixir in order to sleep. The two royal women were obliged to care for the king together night and day, since he refused to abide the presence of anyone else—especially the Royal Alchymist. He could no longer control his natural functions and had to be swaddled like an infant; and his appetite, which was already delicate as a result of his malady and the stress of traveling, dwindled to the point where he could take only milksops or broth laced with wine.

  By the time the returning cavalcade reached the town of Great Market, some forty leagues from the capital, Olmigon had so weakened that Cataldise and Maudrayne began to fear for his survival. They pleaded with him to break the journey. Why not stop for several days in the mayor’s fine mansion, where they were being accommodated? The king could rest and regain his strength.

  But he would not. “I have vitally important business to discuss with my son Conrig,” he declared. “We’ll leave here at dawn, as usual—and tomorrow night I’ll sleep again in my own bed.”

  It was around half-past ten when the royal coach finally entered Cala and rumbled up cobblestoned Blenholme Way to the palace on the hill. The streets of the great city were already cleared of common people by the watch, and a red crescent moon hung low in the western sky above the river ramparts. Advance riders had heralded the party’s arrival, and the palace forecourt blazed with torches. A cheering throng of courtiers greeted the ailing king, who was eased from the carriage and installed in a litter that would bear him to his chambers. Servants dashed about in response to the queen’s commands and those of Vra-Kilian. The other members of the entourage, famished and exhausted, began to melt away.

  Princess Maudrayne was glad that little attention was paid to her, and that her husband was not among those greeting the return of the king. She was able to slip away with Rusgann Moorcock, the sturdy, plainspoken tirewoman who had become her personal maid during the pilgrimage, after Queen Cataldise preempted the services of both ladies-in-waiting.

  Unaccountably, the haughty princess and lowborn Rusgann had become friends. Maudrayne’s sharpness didn’t bother the other woman a bit. When the princess was egregiously rude, Rusgann didn’t hesitate to reply in kind, just as independent-minded Tarnian servants were apt to do when provoked. They had many a zestful quarrel, exchanged complaints about the hardships of the trip, and even found things to laugh about.

  And in time, Maudrayne had shared her secret…

  Well ahead of the crowd attending the king and queen, the two women made their way through the palace to the princely apartments. Only the Lord Chamberlain’s wife Lady Truary, a dame given to irksome inquisitiveness, made bold to waylay them in the corridor beyond the Hall of Presence, in hopes of learning news of the oracle’s reply to the Question.

  “Princess, I’m so glad I found you!” Truary cried, dropping a perfunctory curtsey. “Do come with me to the Blue Room, where other Privy Council wives and I have ordered a delicious collation and mulled wine. The whole palace is wild to know what Emperor Bazekoy said! Was there a good omen? You must tell us!”

  Doughty Rusgann stepped in front of her mistress. “Now then, my lady. You must contain your curiosity. We’ve been on the road since sunup, hurrying along because the King’s Grace was determined to arrive here tonight. Princess Maudrayne is exhausted and has no time for you now.”

  The noblewoman pouted. She was dressed in sky-blue satin, ermine-trimmed, and dripped with jewels. “But we’ve waited for hours and hours! Surely Your Grace can spare us the courtesy of a brief chat. We don’t care a bit about your travelworn appearance.”

  Maudrayne’s garments were caked with dust, and her auburn curls had become a sadly bedraggled mop. It was unforgivably tactless for Truary to have made mention of it, but the princess smiled serenely. “I hope I am always courteous, lady. It’s my duty to every subject of my royal father-in-law, no matter how low… or highborn.”

  Truary blinked, not certain whether or not she had been insulted.

  Neither the Lord Chamberlain’s wife nor any of the other peeresses in her set were warm friends of Maudrayne. When she came to Cala to marry Conrig six years earlier, the court ladies had fluttered about her like frivolous butterflies eager to test the nectar of an exotic new flower sprung up in their midst. Soon enough they discovered that the imposing Tarnian bride was indifferent to fashion, flirting, gossip, and party-going—traditional pastimes of the noblewomen of Cala palace.

  Instead, the seventeen-year-old Maudrayne read books on philosophy and astronomy. She collected rare seashells on solitary walks along the strand. She had dried and pressed wild plants sent to her from all over Cathra and spent long hours mounting them on parchment sheets, inscribing their names, habit of growth, and any utility they might have to mankind. She played lawn-bowls with the male courtiers and often won. She was an expert shot with a shortbow and hunted gamebirds in season, then prepared strangely spiced sauces for their cooking with her own hands. She brought from her barbaric homeland a sloop-rigged yacht, which she captained without shame, dressed as a common sailor. She could even swim!

  As months and years went by without her conceiving an heir to the throne, the princess was both pitied and patronized by the court ladies, who offered charms and nostrums guaranteed to overcome barrenness. Some of them even dared to suggest that a more conventional manner of living would increase her chances of bearing a child. She listened to their comments with ill-concealed scorn and continued doing exactly as she pleased.

  Now Maudrayne said to Truary, “Tonight I must disappoint you and the others. King Olmigon has told no living soul what Question he asked of the oracle— much less what answer he received. If you’re curious, I’m afraid that you’ll have to ask him to share your collation and chat. And now I bid you good night.”

  She swept off down the hall with Rusgann lumbering after. “That’s telling the nervy cow!” the tirewoman said, smothering giggles. “So she waited for hours, poor
thing. And you’ve only been traveling and tending a sick man for three perishing weeks!”

  “Leave be, Rusgann,” the princess said with an irritable gesture. “I’m too tired to be angry.”

  A sly grin. “You’ll soon have sweet revenge on her and the others, if all goes as we hope.”

  “We can’t be certain yet. I’ve only missed two courses. This has happened to me before, with no good outcome.”

  “But this time there’s a glow about you, my lady, even though you’re dead tired. And the morning qualmishness—”

  “I intend to wait until there’s no possible doubt before telling my husband. You will continue to do my laundry and act as my personal maid as well.”

  The tirewoman beamed. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  “I won’t need you tonight, however. You’re as weary as I am. My other attendants have lazed away while I was gone. Let them earn their salt. Tell Lady Sovanna, my chief lady-in-waiting, to find a nice place for you to live, close to my chambers. Be sure it’s to your liking and don’t let her fob you off with some airless closet. Take care of yourself, Rusgann, and sleep well. We’ll discuss your new duties in the morning.”

  They came into the elaborate suite of rooms belonging to the Prince Heritor, his wife, and their intimate servants. Lady Sovanna Ironside, the two vapid young noblewomen who assisted her, and a covey of maidservants hastened to attend the princess, and soon Maudrayne was enjoying a long bath before the fire in her own large sitting room.

  Like Truary, Sovanna was eager to know what Bazekoy’s oracle had said, and was openly annoyed when the princess said she knew nothing about it and curtly refused to discuss details of the journey. The chief lady-in-waiting was a middle-aged woman of great efficiency, appointed by the queen. She pretended a maternal devotion to Maudrayne but had too often borne the brunt of the princess’s fiery temper and offhand thoughtlessness to be loyal—much less a confidante.

  It’s going to be interesting, Maudrayne thought, to see how Sovanna reacts to the promotion of Rusgann. Well—at least I no longer have to worry about the old bitch inspecting my smallclothes and giving the queen monthly fertility reports!

  The princess sipped warmed brandywine and ate a bowl of green egg-and-cheese soup, while her women dried and combed her hair, rubbed her swollen feet with rose-scented oil, and dressed her in a cream-colored nightdress of heavy silk and a matching quilted robe edged with swansdown.

  Later, made mellow by the spirits and light meal and happy to be clean and comfortable again, Maudrayne began to reconsider her decision not to tell Conrig of her secret. They hadn’t seen each other in over two moons, what with the pilgrimage and his own earlier long sojourn at the hunting lodge; and they had parted in a cool humor—she indignant that this year they would not shoot waterfowl and hunt together at Lake Brent, and he adamant that she would not accompany him to the lodge, but refusing to give good reason why.

  From a single private conversation with the king during the return journey, Maudrayne now knew something of what Conrig had been up to in the north country. Unlike Olmigon, she had been well aware that her husband intended to pursue the interrupted press for Sovereignty, whether the king gave his consent or not. And if Conrig was headed off to fight against Didion, he deserved to know that she was expecting a child.

  “Sovanna, is my lord husband in his bedchamber?” It was not the Cathran custom for married royals to share sleeping quarters.

  “I think not, Your Grace,” said the lady-in-waiting, refilling the princess’s crystal cup with Golden Alembic brandy once again, while giving a grimace of disapproval. Maudrayne, like all Tarnian women, could drink most Cathran men under the table and be none the worse the morning after. “He was occupied with affairs of state all evening before you arrived. I know he hoped to visit the King’s Grace as soon as possible to pay his respects, and he’s also called for an extraordinary meeting of the Privy Council.” She smirked knowingly. “That caused a bit of a stir, I heard. Several of the councilors thought they should wait for the king’s approval. But even the reluctant ones finally decided to heed the prince’s wish— for fear of missing some juicy bit of news about the oracle.”

  The other women were gathering up used towels and bathing sundries, while four footmen had come to lift the tub onto a wheeled platform, and were now endeavoring to remove it from the sitting room without spilling water on the fine Incayo carpet.

  “Very well,” the princess said. “You may all leave me now. Quench the lights save for the hour-marker.”

  They bowed and did as she bade and trooped out, closing the door. Maudrayne locked it, then went to a writing table where an elaborately carved little casket stood, gleaming in the lone candleflame. It was made of precious sea-unicorn ivory, fashioned by the Tarnian crafters of Havoc Bay in the far north. When one pressed certain prominent parts in the correct manner, its lid sprang open. Inside was Maudrayne’s diary.

  So many days now to catch up on! But she had not dared to bring the small book along on the pilgrimage. All of her hopes and fears and joys and rages were contained in it, and she intended that no one else should read it until she was dead. She leafed back through the pages, confirming the date of her last womanly course. It was as she’d thought: two moons and more ago. And she had suffered the morning malaise, tender breasts, and swollen feet, and experienced that unaccountable undercurrent of happiness so at odds with the grim tenor of her life of late. Oldwives of Tarn had told her what that meant.

  I will let Conrig know, she decided, replacing the diary. I’ll wait for him in his chamber and tell him this very night.

  She sat quietly for some time in the dimness, savoring the rest of the fine brandy. Then she rose from her armchair and went into her dark bedchamber, and thence to the door connecting her apartment with that of her husband. It was locked, and that was unusual; but years ago she had had the key copied, and so she fetched it now, opened the door, and stepped over the threshold.

  His sleeping chamber was much larger than her own, with a splendid canopied bed in the middle. Wainscot-faced walls were painted dark crimson above, with touches of white and gold in the moldings. The candle-sconces were also gold, but none of the tapers in them were lit, so that the painted landscapes and tapestries on the walls were engulfed in shadows. The only illumination came from the fireplace, where glowing coals crackled before a backlog, from a slightly open door leading to the prince’s sitting room, and from the tall windows. Their draperies had not yet been drawn, so that the lamps on the palace battlements and towers were visible, as well as those in the great city below Cala Hill. Beyond was the black sea, where tiny sparks marked ships at their moorings out in Blenholme Roads.

  It was cold in Conrig’s room, and an unfamiliar fragrance lingered in the air. Was it vetiver? How odd! He was as fond of perfumes as most Cathran men, but his usual preference was for bergamot, oakmoss, or clary sage.

  Maudrayne might have waited for her husband in his bed; but she recalled happier days when they had lain together by the fire in his wide, padded longchair that stood on a hearth-rug of pieced otterskin. Two throws of black mink lay folded neatly on the floor beside the chair to warm the prince when he sat up late, reading or thinking. She shook out both of them to make herself a nest of soft furs.

  I’ll surprise him, she thought, as she snuggled deeply into the chair. Smiling, she fell asleep watching the embers.

  At first Maudrayne thought she was dreaming. There were voices coming from the next room—his, and that of a woman. Conrig spoke angrily and the woman laughed at him, a throaty sound that evoked both derision and sexual enticement.

  “Why should I windspeak your boring brother Stergos when it’s so much more pleasant to come to you in a Sending and deliver my intelligence reports in person?”

  “You should know why—if you had bothered to scry the palace before projecting your Sending. My wife is here and so is the king. Would you destroy me, Ullanoth? I told you not to come here any more!”
>
  “And I told you that I go where I please. But lay your fears to rest, my prince. I’ve secured us against the weak-talented windpeepers dwelling in your palace. Earlier, I watched your touching reunion with your father. I presume that he approved your plan to invade Didion.”

  “He did. He even acceded to your own role as ally. But you must leave me at once! What if my wife should find us together?”

  Maudrayne stifled feelings of amazement and dismay. How could the Conjure-Princess of Moss be here in Cala Palace, speaking to her husband in his private apartment? And what was she saying about an alliance in the invasion of Didion? She strained her ears to learn more.

  Ullanoth was laughing again. “Before I came, I scried your beloved Maudrayne taking a bath and drinking a scandalous amount of brandy. Her chamber is dark. She’s no doubt dead drunk in her bed, with no thought at all of her wifely duty. What a shame! You’ll have to sleep alone… unless you mend your manners and beg my pardon for being rude.”

  “Lady, you go too far—aaah!” He broke off with a cry of pained surprise.

  “No,” came the scornful retort. “You go too far, daring to lay rude hands on a Conjure-Princess of Moss. So there! You’ve been punished. Now entreat my forgiveness, and I’ll say I’m sorry for hurting you with my magic, and we’ll make it up between us with a kiss.”

  Great God of the Arctic Storms! Maudrayne prayed. Grant that this is some nightmare and let me wake! She dares to speak to him like a mistress? And he makes willing answer—

  Maudrayne could not doubt the evidence of her own ears. She overheard amorous sighs and murmurings, and the kind of endearments exchanged only by lovers of long standing. Red rage and wounded pride swelled her Tarnian heart, and she would have sprung up and rushed into the next room to confront the guilty pair. But the next words spoken by the sorceress so intrigued her that curiosity overcame anger. She settled back to listen.