by Julian May
“That’s not what the arcane books say. Any talented person—”
So you admit you have the sigil! Stupid cullion—how dare you aspire to know the Beaconfolk? Haven’t your clumsy researches taught you what you’re playing with? The Lights are older than mankind, older than the Salka, older even than the dry land’s rising from the sea. The Coldlight Army could destroy us all on a mere whim.
“But they haven’t destroyed you, have they? And they didn’t protect your spy from my dagger. Perhaps you’re lying to me, Prince Beynor… I wonder if I should ask your sister Ullanoth about the Beaconfolk. And about the sigil.”
Lowborn fool! Whore’s kitling! Stinking heap of dogpuke! Do you think you can bandy words with me? Throw the moonstone into the sea! Do it tonight!
“No. And you can’t force me to do it, or you would have done so already. Go to hell.”
You’re the one who will experience hell, Deveron Austrey. Now feel the least punishment the Lights can inflict on ignorant meddlers: BITHO SILSHUA!
Prince Beynor vanished, leaving only a dream-sky with countless stars and that oddly calm northern sea. Snudge felt a gruesome chill again, like the one the sorcerer-spy had inflicted on him, starting at his extremities and flooding slowly toward his body’s core, sucking warmth and life from his flesh and entrails and brain. His suffering was appalling—but even worse was the sense of overwhelming fear and foreboding that took hold of him. Somehow, he realized that he had not even begun to experience the fullness of agony. But he would, and very soon, because the torturers were coming for him out of that glittering black sky.
Lights.
Slow-moving blobs of silvery-green, scarlet, and gold, accompanied by a faint hissing crackle, rose up from the horizon. The glowing patches expanded, brightened, became sweeping colored beams and enormous rippling bands and pale bursts of unearthly radiance that finally coalesced into iridescent shapes resembling monstrous living creatures. The Great Lights filled the sky with their brightness and engulfed him, bringing the most atrocious pain he had ever experienced. Whispery laughter mocked him and reveled in his agony as he writhed and tried to scream, and shrank away to a frost-coated nubbin of misery, trapped amidst cracked and shattered bones.
He woke up as always, unable to move, rigid on his palliasse in the chamber where he and the eleven other privileged armigers of the prince’s cohort slept. He had flung aside the bedcoverings and lay naked to the cold predawn wind blowing in from Cala Bay, silently cursing the day he had taken the moonstone sigil from the dead sorcerer.
It hung around his neck on a cord. He never took it off and politely refused to let the other boys examine it closely, saying it was a sacred talisman given him by his late grandfather. The bully Mero Elwick had tried to rip it away one day in the washroom, but Snudge had kneed him in the crotch and left him gagging and cursing, and no one had bothered him about it since.
The square of semi-precious gemstone was carved with the circumpolar constellations and odd asymmetrical shapes Snudge could not put a name to. It never glowed or manifested any magic. In the time he had spent in Cala Palace since returning from Castle Vanguard, with Vra-Kilian fortuitously absent on the king’s pilgrimage and none of his assistant wizards clever enough to catch him in the act, the boy had rifled the Royal Alchymist’s collection of arcane volumes at every opportunity, seeking information about sigils, about the insubstantial beings who empowered them, and about the sorcerers who dared to use such perilous magical instruments. Before retiring each evening, he would report to Prince Conrig the things he had learned—little enough that was useful, but a good deal that scared the wits out of him and made the prince frown with concern.
“I know most of your time is now taken up with learning the knightly arts,” Conrig had said, “but keep searching the Alchymical Library whenever you can. I must know more about the Beaconfolk and the royal conjurors of Moss and the sorcerers of the Glaumerie Guild before we invade Didion.”
So Snudge obeyed, and each night dreamed the dream, and woke paralyzed in the freezing twilight before sunup.
After a few minutes he would be able to move again. He’d rewind himself tightly in blankets and feather-tick until he stopped shivering. Then—he never told any of this to Prince Conrig—he prowled the wind in search of any hint that Beynor’s dream-visitation and awful words were anything but the product of his own imagination. The search for awareness-threads was invariably fruitless. No one ever seemed to be scrying the part of the palace where he lay—not that they would have been able to oversee him! And no one tried to bespeak him from afar.
As Snudge’s body warmed, his talented concentration invariably flagged. No matter how hard he tried to stay alert, sleep always claimed him again. Dreamless, he would lie without moving until the rising-bell tolled.
On the morning of the day that the dream changed, the armigers broke their fast with big bowls of oat-and-walnut porridge sweetened with willowherb honey. There were cannikins of small ale to drink, and tasty blobs of yellow cheese-curd and new-crop apples for those who still felt hungry. Snudge usually did.
After the meal, which was all they would get to eat until dinner, the boys trooped off to the palace tiltyard to practice warfare with swords, lance, or morningstar— the latter being a spiked iron ball attached to a wooden handle by a chain, particularly deadly when wielded by a rider against multiple opponents on foot. All of the squires except Snudge believed that they would soon be marching northward to Beorbrook Hold, where they and the Heart Companions they served would join the earl marshal’s forces in guarding Great Pass against Didionite incursions.
A few knights were honing their skills in the yard that day. Two Heart Companions, Count Feribor and Count Tayman, fully armored, were tilting in the lists with softwood lances, attended by their squires, Mero and Saundar. But most of the student fighters were armigers—not only of Prince Conrig’s cohort but also those who served knights of the royal household. The boys in their short, colored surcoats made a fine display as they charged the quintains on horseback or dueled each other with blunted swords, while trainers looked on and criticized. Only Snudge, the youngest and rawest student, and Vra-Stergos’s armiger Gavlok Whitfell—slow-moving, gangling, and cursed with too much intelligence and imagination to enjoy simulated mortal combat—earned serious reprimands from the Palace Master-at-Arms, Sir Hale Brackenfield, who circulated about the yard keeping a close eye on the action.
Easygoing Gavlok saw his own lack of fighting expertise as a great joke. His principal duties were to fetch and carry for the Doctor Arcanorum and serve him when he traveled. Guarding his master against physical attack, while also part of an armiger’s responsibility, was a minor charge for Gavlock. In spite of having a rather timid, fussy personality, Vra-Stergos was quite capable of fending off common villains with the protective magic of the Mystic Order of Zeth.
Snudge took his own shortcomings more seriously. Not long after returning to Cala Palace, Prince Conrig had commanded Sir Hale to cram as much martial training as possible into his young protege during the few weeks available to them, even if it left Snudge temporarily lame.
“You’ll recover on the march to the north country,” Conrig had told the boy with a heartless laugh. “Do us both proud! Remember you’re a prince’s man now, with a new blazon and honor all your own.”
In a stretch of the Cathran custom of battlefield dubbing of commoners who performed deeds of great prowess, the footman Deveron Austry had been declared worthy of knighthood for signal service rendered to the Prince Heritor. (Details were not forthcoming.) The ceremony was brief, attended only by Vra-Stergos, the Heart Companions, and their squires. Snudge swore fealty to Conrig as his liege lord, and the prince gifted him with a sword, a handsome suit of light armor, a silver drinking cup, and enough money to kit him out decently for his new duties. The knight’s belt and the associated grant of lands in fee would not be bestowed until Snudge reached the age of twenty and was legally adult, but he was no
w an armiger, entitled to be invested with personal armorial bearings. The choice was Snudge’s own.
After much thought, he chose a silver owl gardant on a sable field for his coat-of-arms. As a result, he’d had to put up with jeering hoots from the other boys, endless jokes about mouse-catching, and a plump rat, cooked to a turn, served up with a flourish at breakfast one morn by a solemn-faced kitchen lad, while the other armigers fell about laughing.
Snudge had done his utmost to absorb the crash course of knightly training. His performance at quintain was respectable enough, because he could influence horses with his talent. He’d gallop at full tilt toward the pivoting dummy on its post and usually managed to hit it squarely with lance or morningstar. Even if he was off center, his control of his mount was so adroit that the treacherous back-swing of the dummy never knocked him out of the saddle.
But swordplay was another kettle of fish. Sir Hale let him learn the basic longsword moves practicing with amiable Gavlok; but after two weeks of slow-motion thrust and parry, Snudge had been passed on to stocky, blackhaired Belamil Langsands, the best swordsman among the armigers, to learn use of the curved varg sword that had been bestowed upon him at his dubbing. The lighter blade was more deadly against skilled warriors when fighting afoot.
Belamil's varg could whirl like a silver windmill and change direction faster than a spooked trout. Even worse, he sang lustily as he fought—for Snudge’s benefit the ditty of choice was “The Wise Old Owl”—and rewarded the boy’s mistakes by whacking him stoutly with the flat of his varg while caroling the refrain: “To-whit to-whooo!” Even wearing chain mail and a padded jerkin, Snudge ended up bruised from neck to knee after a week of this tutelage. His ego was even more seriously damaged by the universal applause that accompanied Belamil’s punishments.
“I’ll never be any good with swords,” Snudge moaned to Gavlok, as the young fighters paused to rest and quench their thirst with deep drafts of cider.
“It takes time,” the lanky squire said, smiling. “At least you’ve got a certain natural flair. I don’t! I’ll never be anything better than a bumbling hacker. I plan to ask Lord Stergos for a protective charm before we start out for the north.”
“Who says I’ve got a natural flair?” Snudge asked in disbelief.
“Belamil. He’s actually quite pleased at the way you’re coming along with the varg.”
“You’re joking! He laughs at me. He’s never given me the least word of encouragement or praise.”
“That’s the way it works, young Deveron. Now don’t get all puffed up, or tell Belamil that I spoke out of turn.”
“I won’t,” said Snudge humbly. “But thank you for telling me. I’ve been feeling pretty rotten about letting Prince Conrig down. I know the rest of the armigers think I’m just a jumped-up servant—”
“Some do. Most of us don’t know what to make of you.” Gavlok grinned. “You’re a strange one. You keep to yourself too much. You creep away, going God knows where after dinner instead of joining the rest of us for games and other fun.”
Snudge hesitated. “I have certain tasks to do for the prince.”
“Snooping and sneaking?” The other boy’s eyes sparkled, taking some of the sting out of his words. But he was in earnest.
“I can’t talk about it, Gavlok. I’m sorry.” Snudge looked away. Some sort of commotion was going on at the far end of the tilting yard, near the passageway leading into the main block of the palace.
“Did you really save Prince Conrig’s life?” The question was offhand. “They say an assassin got into Castle Vanguard and you found him out. But I know you never strayed from the repository tower until the day after the great secret meeting, any more than Belamil and Saundar and Mero and I did. We were always together.”
“No, we weren’t. The lot of you slept too much.” Snudge’s attention was on the increasing activity across the yard. Even Feribor and Tayman had abandoned their jousting to join the crowd.
“You left the tower when the rest of us were asleep? But there were guards…”
“And secret passages,” said Snudge absently. “What d’you suppose is going on over there? Maybe we’d better go and see.”
“So you skulked about Castle Vanguard stealthily,” Gavlok prompted, “and discovered the assassin, and alerted the guard.”
“No.” Snudge turned and fixed the older boy with a calm look. “I stabbed the bastard in the heart.”
“God’s Teeth!” Gavlok blurted.
“And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Tell the other armigers if you like. I don’t suppose it matters now. But warn them that I don’t want to discuss the matter. It was the most awful moment of my life… And now please excuse me. I’ve got to find out what the excitement is about.”
Most of the squires and their trainers were gathered around a small figure wearing rich court dress, who was jumping up and down in manic glee and exclaiming, “Tonight! Tonight! Papa and Mummy are coming back tonight!”
He was Prince Tancoron the Simple, second-born son of King Olmigon, seven-and-twenty years of age, but having the stature and mentality of a ten-year-old. He had bright blue eyes that were too wide set and oddly slanted, a button nose, and beardless cheeks. His sunny, unspoiled nature had made him a favorite of almost everyone in Cala Palace.
“Tonight! They’re coming tonight! I heard Con say so. An outrider brought the news. Maybe we’ll have a party!” Beaming, he looked up at the Master-at-Arms. “Will we have a party, Sir Hale?”
“I think not, Your Grace,” Brackenfield said in a patient voice. “Your royal father the king is not well. When he comes home, he’ll have to rest. But we can gather in the forecourt to welcome him, and perhaps there will be a party later.”
The simpleton’s face fell. “But I thought Papa went away to get better. He told me he’d ask the emperor’s ghost to help him.”
Count Feribor’s laugh was full of cruel condescension. “Ghosts are not very good doctors, Prince Tanny. Actually, they’re rather frightful things! The king didn’t really expect Emperor Bazekoy’s spirit to make him well. He wanted the emperor to give him uncanny advice. Advice about the kingdom. Every king of Cathra may ask the emperor’s spirit one important Question.”
Tancoron nodded gravely. “What if the Question is, ‘How can I get well?’”
Mero, Count Feribor’s squire, gave a snort of contempt. Others in the crowd murmured uneasily, afraid of what might be coming. Count Tayman said, “Feri, I don’t think you should—”
“Oh, your father the king would never ask a silly thing like that, Prince Tanny.” Feribor was still in full armor, except for the tilting helm, which was held by Mero. His saturnine face was streaked with sweat and his dark eyes held a gleam of expectant mirth. But his next words were spoken with great gentleness. “You see, only a dying king may ask Emperor Bazekoy a Question.”
There were gasps from the armigers. The prince uttered a forlorn little wail. “Papa is dying?”
“Didn’t they tell you?” Feribor Blackhorse was all solicitude. “Well, maybe they were afraid it would make you cry. And princes should never be crybabies.”
“Damn you, Feri!” muttered Count Tayman. But no one else dared say a word against the queen’s nephew, who only played his little games when Conrig or other members of the royal family were not present.
“I—I don’t want to be a crybaby.” Tancoron’s face was dark with woe. Tears brimmed in his blue eyes. “But I don’t want my papa to die. Papa! Papa!” With desperate strength, the small man pushed his way through the crowd of appalled fighters and dashed away into the passage leading to the palace.
“Poor lackwit,” said Feribor cheerfully. “Well, he brought good news, at any rate, didn’t he, lads? With the king back and giving his royal permission, we’ll be off to fight the starving Diddlies in no time at all!… Come on, Tayman. Let’s have one more joust before we call it a day.”
After the evening meal, at about the eighth hour, Snudge has
tened to the tower where the Royal Alchymist had his quarters. If the king’s cavalcade was due before midnight, as Prince Conrig had announced during dinner, then this would be the last safe opportunity get at Vra-Kilian’s books before his return.
Two young novice wizards had guard duty outside the door of the Alchymical Library, which connected to Kilian’s private chambers. They sat at flanking desks equipped with oil lamps, copying out manuscripts. The library door was slightly ajar, as was usual during the daylight and evening hours, when Kilian’s many assistants might need to consult the volumes of arcana or collections of magical paraphernalia in their master’s outer offices. Above the doorframe hung a brass bell of peculiar form, with a clapper attached to a cord. If it was rung, every alchymist and windvoice in the palace would come running.
Snudge took off his house shoes and left them in a dark alcove, then cast his windsight about to make sure no one else was working in the library or approaching. The coast was clear, and the guardian novices hadn’t noticed him. It was time to hide. Taking a deep breath, he concentrated his talent upon the two heads bent over leaves of parchment, commanding them not to look up. Quill pens continued to scratch industriously. The boy left the alcove and walked boldly up to the novices in his stocking feet, went through the door, and closed it without a sound. Neither of the men paid any attention to him.
Strictly speaking, Snudge’s method of “hiding” had nothing to do with genuine invisibility. It was rather a way of distracting the minds of others, so that people had no desire to look at him and never noticed his presence. The trick didn’t always work, especially with the adept, who were sensitive to mental meddling. Even ordinary folk might penetrate his spell if he made noise or tried the trick when there were more than two or three persons about in broad daylight.
Tonight he was home free again! So—one last chance to search out the sigil’s secret, and better be quick about it. He’d long since examined the books on the open shelves and knew they contained nothing very useful. The volumes that remained to be investigated were inside the Royal Alchymist’s private rooms, located at the far end of the library. He’d been in there before, taking advantage of Vra-Kilian’s absence.