by Julian May
“Restrain your ardor, my prince, until I’ve shared my latest news with you. There is a very serious problem. I have learned that the man killed at Castle Vanguard by your young footman was a high-ranking Mossland sorcerer named Iscannon. He was one of the Glaumerie Guild members who accompanied my brother on the voyage to the Continent. Beyond a doubt he was deeply involved in Beynor’s plot to thwart your conquest of Didion.”
“But how did he find out about the secret meeting?” Conrig asked. “His joining of Hartrig Skellhaven’s train traveling to Castle Vanguard had to be planned well in advance. Surely Beynor could not have windwatched our conferences at Brent Lodge.”
“He could have, but he didn’t. I took careful precautions against it. That’s the problem I spoke of. I believe that you have a traitor among your own people. Beynor had no reason to suspect you were calling a council of war. Furthermore, he and his followers would hardly mount a long-distance surveillance of Cathra on the off-chance of discovering some useful secret. The magic is hellishly difficult, even for Mossland sorcerers. No—my wicked little brother was told of the meeting at Castle Vanguard by some disloyal Cathran.”
“A traitor… The man who comes immediately to mind is Skellhaven, and yet all my instincts tell me he is loyal.”
“In my judgment, your instincts are correct. The pirate lord hates Didion and despises Moss, as does his cousin Holmrangel. And even if one of them was careless and let slip that they were meeting you, they had no advance knowledge of a council of war. So your turncoat must be another.”
“He can’t be one of the three Heart Companions who accompanied me from Brent Lodge,” the prince said. “They didn’t know the purpose of the meeting, either. Only two persons were aware in advance of my intention to attack Didion—Duke Tanaby Vanguard, who organized the council of war at my behest, and the Lord Chancellor, Odon Falmire. I can’t believe either one would consort with Beynor. What possible motive could they have for doing so? You must investigate further, lady.”
“I’ll try,” Ullanoth said, “but there is little more I can do until I have a long talk with Beynor. He returned to Royal Fenguard a couple of hours ago, quite unexpectedly, in a splendid, brand-new ship hidden beneath a spell of couverture. He went off immediately to speak to our father. I did scry the two princes of Didion at home in Holt Mallburn. They were celebrating their new alliance with Stippen and Foraile. I saw the treaty when they showed it to King Achardus.”
“Curse them,” Conrig growled.
Ullanoth uttered a soft, wry laugh. “I’ll do my best, you may be sure… But while I delve into the affairs of my little brother and his cohorts, you must consider who among your own close associates might have a strong reason to betray you.”
A long silence.
Conrig said, “There is only one.” Another silence. “And he may have been able to find out about the meeting at Castle Vanguard by eavesdropping on my conversations with my brother, or by some other means.”
“Who is this person?”
“We’ll talk of it later.”
“We don’t have much time. Less than two weeks remain before your army sets out. And there’s something else you should keep in mind. The sorcerer Iscannon was not only a spy. He was also one of Glaumerie’s premier assassins.”
“God’s Blood! Would he have dared to come at me in Castle Vanguard?”
“Beyond a doubt. And now that he’s dead, Beynor may send another. You must beware, my prince. Seek magical assistance from your brother Vra-Stergos. There is a certain charm I know that would render you sure protection. Unfortunately, I cannot give it to you via a Sending, nor do I dare share its magic with a Brother of Zeth.” She paused, then asked casually, “What did your servant Deveron Austrey do with Iscannon’s moonstone amulet? I know that Skellhaven has the golden chain. But the boy took the sigil, didn’t he?”
“Why… yes. He wanted to hand it over to my brother. But I feared the thing was charged with dangerous magic, so I made him throw it down a necessarium at Castle Vanguard.”
“Ah. That was well done. The moonstone might have done great harm in inexperienced hands, and for love of you I would not see your dear brother Stergos imperiled.”
“So you love me! You’ve never said so.”
“I say it now. And I prove it thus…”
The minutes that followed were broken only by wordless cries. Then the passion of the two in the sitting room grew more intense, until it was evident that neither paid any heed to their surroundings.
With tears of humiliation and fury streaming from her eyes, Princess Maudrayne crept out from beneath the furs, refolded them with shaking hands, and slipped away, locking the door to the prince’s bedchamber behind her. When she was safe in her own apartment, she dried her eyes and put on an ermine-lined cloak against the night chill, then lit a candle and went to the elegant small room where her chief lady-in-waiting slept.
“Sovanna! Wake up. I have need of you.”
The noblewoman groaned pitiably and emerged from her bedclothes with maddening slowness. “Madam, are you ill?”
“I’m unable to sleep. Every bone in my body aches. You must fetch the shaman Red Ansel Pikan and have him bring me a remedy. I presume he still resides in his usual palace room?”
Sovanna Ironside lurched to her feet and fumbled for her house shoes. Her voice was barely civil. “Well, he should be there. One never knows for sure. Since you left on the king’s pilgrimage, the Tarnian leech has prowled the city as he pleases, night and day, doing God knows what. But he usually comes back to the palace for a good meal and strong drink and a warm bed… Ah, where’s my plaguey cloak? It’s freezing in here.”
“Fetch Ansel yourself, Sovanna. Don’t send a footman. And hurry.”
A martyred sigh. “Yes, Your Grace.”
When the woman was gone, Maudrayne returned to her sitting room, heaped fuel on the nearly extinct fire, and efficiently poked it back to life. Pouring herself another stiff tot of brandy, she sat brooding by the hearth for over half an hour, until there came a scratching at the hall door.
She opened it to a smiling, rotund man of medium stature. He was clad in a brown leather tunic with matching gartered trews, over which he wore a greatcoat of lustrous sealskin, ornamented at the sleeves and hem with wide bands of gold thread embroidery and ivory beadwork. A massive pectoral of gold paved with Tarnian opals hung on his breast, and he carried a sea-ivory baton ornamented with inlays of precious metal. His hair and bushy beard had the lively tint of tundra fire-lilies, and his eyes were dark, deep set, and kind.
“Can’t sleep, Maudie?” he inquired genially. “I’ve got just the thing.” He touched an ornate baldric having numerous pouches closed with ivory toggles.
The sharp-faced lady-in-waiting hovered behind him, carrying a lantern. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
“Thank you, Sovanna,” the princess said. “You may retire.” She took Red Ansel’s arm and drew him inside, locking the door. “I’m sorry to have roused you.”
“Oh, I wasn’t asleep. There’s much ado in the palace tonight. Prince Heritor Conrig summoned me less than half an hour ago, following a wee-hours meeting of the Privy Council. It seems your husband fears an attack on Cala from the Continent. I’ve been ordered to enlist Tarnian mercenary ships to help defend the city.”
She lifted her brows. “And will they come?”
“I’ll windspeak the sealords in Goodfortune Bay early tomorrow and we’ll see. The prince wanted me to do it at once, but I told him our countrymen would charge him double if they were forced to talk business in the middle of the night.”
“Come and sit with me by the fire. Would you like some brandy?”
Ansel chuckled. “Does a Tarnian ever refuse good liquor?” He studied her face as she poured, and his cheerful mien became one of deep concern. “You didn’t really summon me for a sleeping potion, did you, lass?”
“No, old friend.” She sighed. They took their ease and he wai
ted patiently for her to speak while they both sipped from crystal cups. Her question, when it finally came, made him goggle in astonishment.
“Ansel, what is a Sending?”
“Well, well! So you’ve got yourself mixed up in sorcery, have you?”
“Not I,” she said calmly, “but my lord husband.”
A brief look of pity shone in the shaman’s eyes. “A Sending is a magical body replica, a double of a highly talented person, sent over a distance to have converse with another who possesses talent. The simulacrum is virtually identical to the Sender’s natural form—warm and solid, not a ghost. While a wizard inhabits his Sending, his true body remains alive but totally senseless.”
Maudrayne was taken aback. “The—the person receiving the Sending must also possess talent?”
“Oh, yes. The receiver helps to solidify the Sending, which may then prowl about anywhere it chooses. But it can only arrive in the near vicinity of an adept.”
Her glance fell. When she spoke her voice was desolate. “A Sending came to my husband this night and may still be with him in his chambers. I overheard them but didn’t see them together. It was not a wizard who came but a witch: Ullanoth, Conjure-Princess of Moss.”
“By the Three Icebound Sisters! Then Prince Conrig is secretly adept! I never got close to him when he returned to the palace, so I had no idea. His talent must be exiguous indeed if no Brother of Zeth has detected it.”
“This is a calamity, Ansel. If Conrig’s talent were known, he would be barred from the Cathran succession.”
“But surely you would not betray your husband’s secret, my child. Nor would I.”
“I’m not certain what I will do,” she said in an ominous tone. “Answer another question for me. Can a Sending become pregnant?”
“Great God of the Boreal Blizzards,” Ansel breathed. “The Mossland witch has had sexual congress with your husband?”
Her voice had a preternatural composure. “Yes. This very night—and probably not for the first time. I’ve told you that Conrig has been cold toward me because he fears I’m barren. Now I think he may intend to put me aside— perhaps taking this Ullanoth to wife.” She gave a small, bitter laugh. “But here’s a fine jest: I’m virtually certain that I’m two months with child. It was to tell Conrig the wonderful news that I went into his chambers tonight and waited for him. I fell asleep, and when I woke he was in the next room with Ullanoth’s Sending. And they—they—” She squeezed her eyes shut. “God help me, Ansel. I heard them! And if she can also give him a child—”
The shaman bent forward, taking the hands of the princess. “Maudie, a Sending cannot conceive. Neither can it digest food, or perform any other natural bodily function—or even remain longer than a few hours in the place where it was Sent, for then the genuine body would sicken and die as its energies were drained.”
Maudrayne cried, “Say you true?” Tears brimmed in her eyes, and for a moment she was exalted.
“I do, dear girl. I know all about such things, for they are part of the magical heritage of the Far North.”
The sudden joy drained from her face, to be replaced with a look of calculation. “Then perhaps there is time to win him back, if my pregnancy goes well. Conrig covets an heir as much as he does the Sovereignty of Blenholme. But I think I shall not tell him yet. No, not until our love is rekindled and I am certain that I have first place in his heart… One other thing I must know: What is a sigil?”
The shaman’s benign face hardened. “It’s a piece of strangely carved moonstone made by the Salka monsters in ages long past, so fraught with peril that no sensible magicker would have anything to do with it—a charm conjured with the dread power of the Coldlight Army. Don’t tell me Prince Conrig is meddling with such a thing!”
“I’m not sure. What does a sigil do?”
“They have various purposes, depending upon the spell infused within them. But all have the potential to destroy the soul of the user and do great harm to those around them. You must tell me how you came to know of such a thing. Did the prince and Ullanoth speak of it?”
She told him what she had overheard about Iscannon the wizard-assassin, slain by Conrig’s young footman Deveron, and how the Conjure-Princess had inquired offhandedly about what had been done with a sigil taken from his dead body.
“Iscannon,” the shaman murmured. “I know of him. A member of Moss’s Glaumerie Guild, which has custody of Rothbannon’s renowned Seven Stones. So he was killed by a common servant boy! I wonder how that happened?”
“My husband claimed that this sigil was thrown down a latrine in Castle Vanguard by the footman. Ullanoth was happy for its disposal, saying as you do that it was very dangerous. But—I think Conrig may have lied.”
“Hmmm! Why don’t I search his chambers? One can’t scry a sigil, but no locked door can stop me. If Prince Conrig has the magical moonstone, perhaps I can find a way to take it away from him and put it in a safe place.”
Maudrayne brightened. “Could you do that? I confess that I don’t know whether I still love the damned man or hate him at this moment, but I certainly would not have him endangered by evil magic.”
“You can trust me, lass. Of course, Conrig may not have the sigil after all. Who is this young footman called Deveron?”
“A furtive lad, always skulking about and turning up in unexpected places. I think Conrig uses him as a sort of domestic spy. He’s certainly more than an ordinary servant.”
“Does he possess talent?”
“Certainly not.”
“Puzzling,” mused the shaman. “And to think that such a one killed Iscannon! I think I’ll take a discreet look at this interesting young man and find out whether he secretly kept Iscannon’s stone—perhaps as a souvenir. If he did, something will have to be done. Don’t worry, Maudie. I’ll deal with it.” He rose to his feet. “You need sleep after your tiring journey.” He opened one of the pockets on his baldric and removed a green phial, oddly shaped. “Put three drops of this in water and drink it down. You will fall asleep at once and rest dreamlessly.”
She took the tiny bottle. “Thank you, Ansel. Come again to me tomorrow. I’ll tell you about the trip to Zeth Abbey, and you can tell me how you’ve fared for the past three weeks. How is the ambassador’s ailing small daughter?”
“Fully recovered and homesick for Tarn.”
The princess sighed. “So am I, old friend. Sick and so very, very tired!” She kissed him on the cheek, let him out, and secured the door to the corridor.
At the entrance to her bedchamber she paused. By now, the ceramic bottles of hot water the servants had carefully arranged to warm her sheets would be stone cold. Why not sleep in front of the sitting-room fire? She went for a pillow and a down comforter and settled into an upholstered armchair with a footstool. When she was comfortable, she realized she had forgotten water for the sleeping potion. She studied the gleaming green-glass phial in the firelight. It contained over a dram, enough to bring many nights of sleep.
I don’t believe I need this after all, she thought drowsily, tucking it into a pocket of her robe. But it may come in handy later.
Chapter Eleven
Nightmares had begun to poison Snudge’s sleep even before the prince’s retinue left Castle Vanguard, and they had persisted during the journey back to Cala Palace and in the weeks since then. The dream was always more or less the same.
First he found himself reliving his encounter with the Mosslander spy, saw that ravaged face materialize out of invisibility and assume an expression of false friendship, stubby teeth exposed in a parody of a smile. Then the hawk-orange eyes turned to orbs of onyx blazing with malignant talent. The boy once again felt a profound cold spreading through his body and steely thumbs throttling the life out of him. At the brink of death, he finally took fumbling hold of his dagger and slammed it deep into the enemy’s heart.
And heard the sorcerer’s windspoken cry of desperation: Beynor!
Snudge never saw the spy di
e, for that was the signal for the dream to change, for another person to appear, one he had never seen when wide awake.
The man was gauntly attractive and quite tall, perhaps no older than Snudge himself, although there was nothing youthful about his masterful bearing and narrow, pinched countenance. He wore sumptuous clothing edged with fur. His head was bare, and his hair was as pale and glistening as thistledown. At first, the young man in the dream appeared to be standing inside various richly furnished rooms, often backed by a window showing a night sky.
In later dreams, Snudge saw him poised in the bow of a great ship, with his hair blown nearly horizontal in a strong wind, which he seemed not to notice. Sails swelled and crackled above him and spray crashed rail-high as the stem of the vessel split the water at speed. Beyond lay an expanse of dark ocean, incongruously unruffled, a few drifting icebergs, and a sky strewn with brilliant stars.
Whether in strange mansions or on shipboard, the young man always held the same conversation with Snudge. His bloodless lips spoke without audible sound.
Throw it into the sea, Deveron Austrey!
“What?”
Get rid of it as soon as you can. Throw it away!
“What? Throw away what?”
That which is mine. Go down to the docks in Cala Harbor and throw it into the water so that it may return to me. Banish all memory of it, or risk the revenge of the Lights, pain and desolation more terrible than any that a human being can imagine.
“Who are you? What are you talking about?”
You know what I’m talking about. You stole it from my servant Iscannon after you killed him. You keep it well hidden. You search through books taken from the library of the Royal Alchymist, hoping to unlock its secret. You never will. All you’ll discover is a horror worse than death.
“Are you the one called Beynor? The Conjure-Prince of Moss?”
I am. And the thing you stole is mine to command—not yours.