by Julian May
He finished the last of his breakfast, pushed away from the table, and began to don his black-and-silver brocade doublet and a swordbelt ornamented with white gold. “I’d best lead the arresting party myself. We’ll take the miscreant in charge before he tries to escape. Gossy, how can we fend off any magical mayhem Kilian might attempt? And you did say he’s locked inside his sanctum. We’ll need to neutralize whatever protective enchantments he’s set up.”
“Oh, my, yes. I’ll have to consult Abbas Noachil on the wind.” Stergos’s former air of resolution had evaporated and he was dithering with anxiety. “There are incantations to bind renegade wizards, of course, but we’ll probably need all of the loyal Brethren in the palace, working together, to manage Vra-Kilian. He’s so very strong! And shut up in his sanctum, he has access to significant magical equipment… I’ll make preparations immediately. Shall I assemble the other Brethren in the Blue Foyer when we’re ready? It’s close to the Alchymical Library and will make a good rallying point.”
“An excellent idea. Summon my ten Heart Companions also, and bid them come armed in full panoply. Go now. I’ll remain here a few minutes more, in case Snudge has found Princess Ullanoth. Then I must share this information with our father the king, and draw up a warrant for Kilian’s arrest.”
Stergos left the room, and the prince strode back and forth before the fire, chewing his lip, wondering how his press for Sovereignty might be salvaged if he had to abandon the invasion of Didion. But that might be the least of his worries if young Beynor instigated a sea-attack on Cathra from the Continent—
Snudge came into the sitting room. “Your Grace?”
The prince spun about. “You’ve seen her?”
“No. But then, I didn’t think I would. However, Princess Ullanoth’s tower rooms in Royal Fenguard are enveloped in their usual covering spell. She’s very likely inside.”
The prince brightened. “Yes! That’s sure to be it. Mourning her father, perhaps, or thinking how to take vengeance on her crafty little brother.”
“Beynor’s hidden himself, too, in his own apartments. King Lindall’s body is propped up on the throne, dressed in regal robes. A great crowd of his subjects are parading before it. Some of them kiss his golden slippers for good luck as they pay their last respects.”
“Ugh!” said the prince. “Superstitious swamp-stompers!”
“Do you require anything more of me, Your Grace?” The boy looked listless and drained after his arcane effort.
Conrig’s eyes narrowed. “Snudge, my own talent is small, but nevertheless it often guides me in sniffing out falsehood. Did you tell me the whole truth about that book you stole from Kilian? I thought I sensed you were withholding something from me.”
The boy considered for a moment, then said in a level voice, “I’m your man till my death, Your Grace. I told you what you should know. You must trust me to do what’s best in matters concerning my own talent and other sorcery. I’ll never do you harm, but sometimes I must protect you from things you might misunderstand, that could put both of us in terrible danger. If you can’t accept this, then dismiss me from your service.”
The prince drew in his breath sharply in outrage and opened his mouth. But the cutting words of reprimand died in his throat when he saw the look in Snudge’s eyes—the same stubborn integrity possessed by Stergos. The boy’s loyalty was not blind, and he, the master, could take it or leave it.
“I won’t dismiss you,” Conrig said, sighing. “And I will trust you.” For now…
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Do one final thing for me. Oversee Kilian’s chambers and see if you detect any specific threats to me and my men. We’re going to arrest him with the help of Stergos and the faithful Brothers.”
The short-range scry was easy enough. Snudge closed his eyes and let the wind carry him. The outer rooms of the Royal Alchymist were open, guarded by a pair of novices as usual. Three red-robed adepts were seated at carrels in the library, consulting magical volumes, making notes, and whispering to one another; they were the infamous Brothers Raldo, Niavar, and Cleaton. Kilian’s door was locked, and his chambers were enveloped in couverture.
Snudge described what he had windwatched. “Is there anything else, Your Grace?”
“No. Go practice your knightly arts as usual, but from time to time during the day, go apart and windsearch for the Princess Ullanoth again. If she’s dead, and her mysterious allies unable or unwilling to assist us during the invasion, we may be forced to rethink our attempt to conquer Didion.”
“I’ll do my utmost to find her. But if she lives, I think it likely that she’ll tell you herself, at a time of her own choosing.”
He bowed and left the room, leaving Conrig frowning thoughtfully.
Had the boy really cast book and sigil into the sea? The prince knew he’d have to find out the truth.
Chapter Fifteen
Vra-Kilian Blackhorse, Royal Alchymist of Cathra, had gone briefly to his rooms after the king’s cavalcade returned home from the pilgrimage, intending to change his dusty garments, refresh himself, and then attend upon the ailing Olmigon, making yet another attempt to learn the oracle’s response to the Question.
Almost immediately he discovered that someone had been inside his inner sanctum—not once, but nine times during the three weeks he was away. A simple mechanical device concealed in the doorframe tripped each time the door was opened, making a small mark on a black wax tablet; the device reset itself each time the door closed. Its operation was so unobtrusive that it was beneath the notice of any thief—whether or not he possessed arcane ability.
With a sinking heart, Vra-Kilian had hastened to open his four windsight-secure cabinets to see whether anything had been taken. Nothing appeared to be missing except the small book that gave a condensed description of sigils and their operation. He took the baskets of moonstones to his worktable and counted them twice, but all of them were there, as were the large volumes dealing with Beaconfolk magic, written in the Salkan tongue.
Kilian muttered a curse as he left his sanctum, poured a goblet of wine to ease his nerves, and settled into a cushioned armchair to think. Could an agent of Prince Beynor have insinuated himself into the palace during his absence? It hardly seemed likely. Why would a Mosslander thief have taken only the small book—the one written mostly in the Cathran language—and left the more valuable Salkan volumes and the priceless sigils themselves behind?
Beynor did covet those sigils desperately, but he had no notion of where they were hidden, nor did he know precisely how many moonstones Kilian possessed. The alchymist had hinted to the boy-wizard that there were fifty in the collection, while the trove actually included more than twice that number. They had originally come from a prehistoric Salkan grave, discovered by another Royal Alchymist of Cathra, a certain Vra-Darasilo Lednok, over seven hundred years ago. That long-dead Brother of Zeth had compromised his vows by preserving artifacts of Beacon-folk magic; but Darasilo, who was both a scholar and a devotee of magical history, simply could not bring himself to destroy such a treasure. Instead he had hidden them away. What was the real harm, when both sigils and spells could never be used? Darasilo bequeathed his hoard to his successor, advising him to destroy the books and the moonstones if he deemed it necessary.
The successor did not. Neither did the Royal Alchymists who followed him in office. Instead, Darasilo’s collection was passed along under a strict oath of secrecy. Venerated as relics of ancient, unattainable magic, they were marveled at and morbidly speculated about, but were never objects of temptation. To empower those sigils would require the cooperation of the few remaining Salka, hideous man-eaters whose hatred of humans was legendary. What Brother of Zeth would risk both his life and his immortal soul to acquire magic so perilous?
None… until Vra-Kilian Blackhorse.
He’d only conceived the great notion a little over a year ago, when the political situation on the island had come to a boil because of the con
tinuing curse of the Wolf’s Breath. Kilian’s influence in the Privy Council was clearly waning as the Prince Heritor championed the push for Sovereignty. Conrig’s animosity towards Kilian was immutable, and the alchymist realized that he had no chance of retaining his high office if Conrig became king.
One winter evening, as the wizard brooded over the dead sigils in his sanctum, knowing that even one of them, conjured into life, might give him the power to reverse his fortunes, the brilliant idea came to him. It was so simple that he could hardly believe that none of his predecessors had considered it. Or perhaps they had, but lacked the ingenuity or courage to follow through…
Unlike the people of the southern part of the island, who had long since lost any contact with the uncanny amphibian beings conquered by Emperor Bazekoy, the folk of Moss still shared territory with the Salka. The Glaumerie Guild knew the Salkan language, and so did the royal family. Rothbannon, the first Conjure-King, had taken particular pains to ingratiate himself with Salka shamans. How the fearless sorcerer had acquired the Seven Stones from the monsters and used them to found a kingdom was a cornerstone of Moss’s brief history.
The rulers who succeeded Rothbannon over the next century proved less expert in dealing with the dreaded Beaconfolk and the marvelous sigils they empowered. After several appalling mishaps, the Seven Stones were locked away by the Guild wizards, to be used only in case of some overwhelming national emergency—which fortunately never occurred, Moss being such an insignificant backwater of the otherwise lively island.
The ultracautious tradition had finally been broken by Linndal and his wife Taspiroth, formidable magickers both, who once again made use of the Stones. But the Conjure-Queen miscalculated and died atrociously on a whim of the Coldlight Army, and her husband’s mind foundered as he witnessed her fate. He deactivated the sigils and locked them away.
Which left their children.
Beynor and Ullanoth, like their parents before them, had been taught the Salkan language as part of their thaumaturgical education, so that they would be able to command the Seven Stones, should the need arise. Kilian was aware that the brother and sister were implacable rivals, Beynor favored to inherit the throne and already experimenting with the Stones as his parents had done, Ullanoth choked with bitter resentment until—as rumor had it—the spirit of her mother had gifted her with a few minor sigils of her own.
How that must have dismayed the Conjure-Prince! In his own callow way, he was as politically ambitious as Conrig Wincantor. Kilian knew for a fact that it was Beynor who had convinced King Achardus of Didion to sell warships to Stippen, Foraile, and Andradh, worming his way into the barbarian ruler’s confidence. The boy-wizard hadn’t caused the Wolf’s Breath, but he’d known how to take advantage of it by lying to his gullible neighbors and pretending to powers he didn’t possess.
In short, Beynor of Moss was the very person Vra-Kilian needed.
He had bespoken the aspiring young man, offering him twenty-five precious sigils—“half the number I inherited from my predecessor”—in exchange for Salkan language lessons.
Dumfounded, Beynor had tentatively agreed. But he’d proved shrewder in negotiation than Kilian had anticipated, postponing the actual fulfillment of the bargain again and again. He refused to meet Kilian in person for fear the older man would take magical advantage of him.
And so a temporary impasse was reached. Neither Royal Alchymist nor Conjure-Prince trusted the other, with good reason; but by unspoken agreement, they became co-conspirators, seeking mutual advantage in the increasingly chaotic politics of the island, and hoping that fate would show them the way to achieve their separate goals.
Kilian’s manipulation of King Olmigon eventually culminated in the Edict of Sovereignty massacre; while Beynor (unbeknownst to Kilian) pressed Didion to form an alliance with the Continental nations. The odd bedfellows had been drawn closer by Prince Conrig’s unexpected teaming up with Ullanoth and his decision to invade Didion.
When Kilian learned of the secret council of war to be held at Castle Vanguard, he had informed Beynor, who suggested sending one of his wizards to spy on the meeting, hidden by the Concealer. If the opportunity arose, Iscannon was also instructed to inflict serious injury on Conrig—but not kill him, lest Olmigon appoint a new heir—effectively ending the threat of an invasion.
Iscannon’s death and the theft of his sigil had thrown the plans awry. The alchymist feared that Conrig had learned of Beynor’s complicity from Princess Ullanoth. Perhaps the prince also suspected him of treason…
“And now this mysterious intruder!” the Royal Alchymist exclaimed aloud.
Could he have been sent by Conrig? Had the Prince Heritor ordered his brother Stergos to pry into Kilian’s things, hoping to incriminate him? The little book of Beaconfolk magic was a thing forbidden to the Brethren. Perhaps it alone had been taken in hopes that Kilian would not notice its loss. Conrig might have planned to use the thing to discredit Kilian in the eyes of his Order, paving the way for the alchymist’s disgrace and banishment from court.
There was a way to find out.
Kilian resumed his seat, closed his eyes, and began a windsearch—first of the Doctor Arcanorum’s chambers, and then of the prince’s. The purloined book was not there. Clenching his teeth, he began to search the rest of the palace. But even a superficial overview of the sprawling edifice took over an hour to perform and proved to be fruitless and doubly frustrating. Searching beyond the palace was not within his powers.
While Kilian wasted time hunting for the book, Prince Conrig managed to reach the king’s bedside before him and leave orders forbidding him entrance.
I’ve probably lost the game, the Royal Alchymist told himself, as he waited outside the royal bedchamber. All I can do now is brazen it out and salvage what I can from the wreckage.
Later, after King Olmigon and the prince had conferred and reconciled, Kilian had been forced to accompany Conrig to a meeting of the Privy Council, attended only by the principal members. There Conrig had displayed the writ affirming that he was now the only one who addressed the Council with King Olmigon’s authority. The Royal Alchymist would no longer have a seat after tonight. Henceforth, he would only administer arcane affairs, as his predecessors had.
In a state of eerie tranquility, Vra-Kilian had returned to his rooms. He tried to bespeak Beynor of Moss and tell him of his abrupt demotion and the book’s theft, but the young wizard was not disposed to answer. All Kilian could do was have wind-converse with Ridcanndal, Grand Master of the Glaumerie Guild, and request that the Conjure-Prince contact him as soon as possible. Then Kilian stripped off his garments, downed a sleeping potion, and threw himself wearily into bed. He fell asleep almost at once.
The windspoken voice of Beynor did not wake him until nearly six in the morning, and its tone was ominous.
Vra-Kilian, my friend, you are in very serious trouble. But perhaps you already realize that.
Yes, but he still had to put a good face on it!
“I know I’ve been dismissed from the Privy Council by Prince Conrig, but this may be only a temporary setback. I also know that a clever thief has stolen one of my books of Beaconfolk magic. The other two volumes are safe, as are the sigils and all the rest of my things. There’s no trace of the missing book within Cala Palace. I did a windsearch. So the thief is probably long gone away. The book’s loss is unfortunate, but hardly a catastrophe.”
You’re wrong. The book was taken by Deveron Austrey, Prince Conrig’s personal agent, a boy of sixteen years. He knows now that you have large numbers of sigils in your possession and will certainly report this to his royal master.
“But—that’s unbelievable! I remember this Deveron now. He’s only the prince’s footman. How could a mere housecarl get past my guardian novices and intricate locks? Did you windwatch him in the act?”
No. Deveron is a powerful wild talent, which is why he serves Conrig. His arcane abilities cannot be detected by an adept examiner, and it’
s impossible to windwatch him. I’m now certain that he was the one who discovered my spy Iscannon at work in Castle Vanguard and slew him. For this service Conrig created the boy an armiger while you were away on the king’s pilgrimage.
“Blessed Zeth…”
Even worse, I’m certain Deveron took Iscannon’s invisibility sigil. His motive for stealing your book was to discover how to use the moonstone himself.
“The boy’s not in the palace now, because the book’s not here and he’d surely keep it with him. As I said, I windsearched for the book hours ago and found no trace of it. Tomorrow my loyal followers will track down the damned brat, wherever he’s hidden himself in the city, using ordinary means. They’ll slit his throat and retrieve both the book and the sigil. Conrig will be none the wiser if we dispose of the body—”
You don’t know that Deveron’s left the palace. I told you that he can’t be wind-watched! If his innate body-shielding talent is strong enough, you may not be able to descry the book as he carries it about. You’re in great danger, Vra-Kilian, and you must flee at once.
“Not so fast! If the boy had already betrayed me, Conrig’s Heart Companions would have been battering my chamber door with the hilts of their swords, rousting me out of bed. Nothing of the sort has happened. No doubt the young knave didn’t want to disturb his royal master’s sleep and decided to wait until morning to give his report. Before he can betray me, I’ll have my men seize him. He’ll vanish as though he’d never existed.”
You’re a shortsighted clodpate, Kilian! I told you that Conrig himself authorized the boy to invade your sanctum. The prince already suspects you of betraying his council of war to me. He’s on to you. This is why he removed you from the Privy Council. Escape while you can. Make your way to Moss by ship. My Glaumerie Guild and I will welcome your great talent.
“But I can’t leave without my things—my magical apparatus and reference volumes. They’re beyond price!”