by Julian May
“My love,” said the queen anxiously, “I told you last night that Con and his Heart Companions were ready to depart.”
“You did?” A momentary trace of bewilderment crossed the old man’s face. His memory, like his other faculties, was failing; only his willpower seemed miraculously rejuvenated.
The prince said, “Sire, you know far more about naval matters than I, and Copperstrand is intelligent and trustworthy. He’ll know how to deploy the ships to best advantage without any help from me. But you must buttress his authority if any of Tothor Dundry’s old messmates begin playing mutinous power games.”
“I’ll have their cods for penny-purses if they try it,” growled the king.
“The grain convoy sailed on the morning tide,” Conrig continued. His mouth tightened. “And I made certain that the shaman Red Ansel was aboard… Each skipper knows that the kingdom’s fate may depend on his getting the cargo quickly to Goodfortune Bay. The Treasury has pledged to pay double the agreed-upon exorbitant shipping fee to every ship that reaches Tarnholme within eight days.”
Olmigon groaned. “I suppose it was necessary.”
“It was,” said the prince. “The Tarnian mercenaries have agreed to weigh anchor as soon as the arriving grain ships pass inspection. They could be here in a week or less if the winds are fair.”
“If,” muttered the king. “It’s Boreal Moon, you know. The Western Ocean can expect any sort of weather from a flat calm to a spar-cracking gale. We’ve even had Hammer and Anvil storms in Boreal!”
Conrig forged on, ignoring the king’s pessimism. “Meanwhile, I’ve reinforced the coastguarding windvoices. The Acting Royal Alchymist, Vra-Sulkorig Casswell, has sent two dozen keen novices to beef up the strength at Castles Intrepid, Defiant, and Blackhorse. Besides that, he organized a squad of inspectors to vet every shipboard windvoice in the fleet, making sure they’re competent. The man’s turned out to be a fine replacement for Kilian. We have Gossy to thank for recommending him.”
“I wish you weren’t taking Stergos with you, Con,” the queen said. “He has none too robust a constitution, and that mooncalf squire of his isn’t the kind of bodyguard I’d choose.”
Conrig took her hand and spoke reassuringly. “Gossy will never go into harm’s way, Mother. I swear it on my honor. If there’s fighting, I’ll defend his life with my own. Better yet—I’ll make certain that he stays well back out of any fray, as is proper for a man of peace. But I need him with me in this adventure, just as I will need him at my side when I become king.”
“Stop worrying, Catty,” the king admonished, forgetting that he had been expressing his own doubts minutes before. “Con, you must have Stergos wind-speak Vra-Sulkorig regular reports of your progress, which he’ll pass on to me alone. I in turn will keep you informed of matters here in the south.”
“I agree,” Conrig said. “If at all possible, I’ll have Gossy bespeak the news each day at sunset—and he’ll inform you at once if we encounter the foe. But always remember that our plan of attack through Breakneck Pass must be kept secret. Discuss it with no one except Vra-Sulkorig.” He turned again to the queen. “No one else, Mother. Not even Lady Vandaya.”
“I understand.” She was slightly miffed that he had admonished her, yet felt a pang of guilt, realizing that she might have been tempted to confide in her old friend. She changed the subject: “When shall we leave off giving Maudrayne the mind-dulling potion? It can’t be healthy to keep dosing her with the vile stuff, no matter what Stergos and Sulkorig say.”
“Stop only after I have joined battle in Holt Mallburn. After that, only keep her confined so that she doesn’t run away. She must be here when I return.”
“I’ll see to it,” Cataldise said.
“Then it’s time for me to go,” Conrig said. “My men are waiting and we must reach Melora by nightfall. Father, may God sustain your life until we meet again.”
Conrig kissed his mother, then bent over the king’s bed to press his lips to the old man’s brow.
The king pulled himself into a sitting position. In the days since his return from the pilgrimage, he had lost so much weight that his skin now hung on his bones like an oversized garment. His hands trembled now when they had nothing to grasp, but his eyes had come alive again and burned with hope and determination. “We’ll all be waiting for news of your triumph over Didion. And if Emperor Bazekoy should call on me to rise from this bed and assist you, I’ll be ready.”
In the late evening, as the Casabarela Regnant finally came clear of the perilous Darkling Sands and hoisted all sails for her homeward run, Ullanoth prowled the Didionite flagship, unseen by dint of Concealer.
She had found a secure place to stow away on the orlop deck, the lowest part of the huge four-tiered barque. The locked and deserted sick bay had two comfortable bunks, and food and water were easily available to her in the galley. After cleaning the stains from her face and hands and washing the grease from her hair, she went to eavesdrop invisibly on the royal family of Didion, who had fled to the ship immediately following the aborted coronation ceremony.
All of them had been well slathered with an ointment of chamomile, lavender, and pine, which gave some relief from their myriad midge bites. Queen Siry and the princesses had retired early to their beds, all save one of them nearly swooning with outrage. Risalla, the exception, was overcome by feelings of joyous deliverance, after her father informed her she would not be marrying the luckless Beynor after all.
Ullanoth found King Achardus and his sons gathered in the sumptuous cabin in the vessel’s sterncastle, where they were restoring themselves by means of the traditional Didionite remedy after a bad day: getting drunk.
“More,” the king commanded, holding out his cup to Somarus. “I can still feel the damned itching and see that river of red-eyed rats pouring into Beynor’s throne room.”
The prince obeyed with alacrity. They were drinking plum life-water, Didion’s favorite spirit, prized in spite of the horrendous hangovers it caused.
“Archwizard Ilingus informed me that my wife’s rat-bite was a trivial thing,” Honigalus said, taking a pull from his own goblet. “It should heal quickly and leave only a tiny scar on her heel. But from Bryse’s complaints, you’d think she’d taken a hit from a broad arrow. I’m never going to hear the end of this.”
“You were the one who urged us all to attend that nightmare bash,” his brother said waspishly. “I hope you’re satisfied. At least your precious Treaty of Alliance is still in force—for whatever good it’ll do us.” He rose from the table and went to the great window at the stern. It was full dark now, and the ship left a phosphorescent wake as it ran across Seal Bay, flying before a chill northerly wind. The escorting vessels were visible only from their mast lights far astern.
“Beynor promises to keep a constant magical eye out for Cathran land incursions,” Honigalus said. “That should give us a clear field at sea and do us plenty of good. If we sail well to the east, the Cathran magickers won’t see us coming until we round the Vigilant Isles—even if they combine their windwatching talents.”
“But Beynor admitted he doesn’t have a moonstone amulet for scrying,” Somarus said, “only the usual Mosslander sorcery.”
“Which is far stronger than anything Lingo and his lot can muster. Everything will go well.”
“So you lads are still determined to go ahead with your ploy?” Achardus’s face was flushed and full of doubt.
Honigalus said. “Our spies in Cala City report that the Cathran fleet is still moored deep in Blenholme Roads like a flock of mud-hens sitting out a sun-shower, with small sea room to maneuver. And our mainland friends are ready. All they need are fair winds in the Dolphin Channel and a word from us.”
The king wagged his gigantic head as if trying to clear his fuddled wits. “But to risk all our fighting fleet—”
The Crown Prince, who was in charge of Didion’s Royal Navy, said, “The crews are sullen and insubordinate from being idle and
on short rations, sire. If they have to spend the winter starving ashore, we’ll lose most of them to desertion. Taking the fleet into action now, with the prospect of rich plunder in Cala, will lift their spirits sky-high. We’ll never have such propitious conditions for a sea-strike again. Cathra’s all in a lather because King Olmigon is dying. Vra-Kilian assured young Beynor of that. I daresay Conrig won’t want to leave his father’s bedside.”
“Must keep our eyes peeled for trouble at Great Pass, though,” Achardus warned blearily, surging to his feet and gesturing with his empty cup. “Keep our forces alert! Don’t just count on Beynor to warn us. Sneaky rat bastard Conrig’s capable of anything! Even aband’ning a dying father. What kind of a son’d do that?”
“No Didionite,” Prince Somarus averred. “Only a degenerate Cathran. But we’ll be ready for any trickery in the high country. I plan to collect and lead reinforcements to Castlemont immediately. We won’t be caught napping if Conrig attacks. And don’t underestimate Beynor. He’s a loathsome little pustule, but he’s eager to earn our gold.”
“What gold?” Achardus uttered a despairing groan. He was far gone in drink. “We have none left, ‘cept the crown jewels. You’d think Beynor’d know that if he’s such a fhumpin’ great magicker.” He held out his cup. “More plum water!”
Honigalus poured, and refilled his own and his brother’s cup as well. “Beynor knows there’s gold aplenty in Cathra. And he’s showed us how to take it.”
“Should have figured it out by yourselves.” The king’s voice was slurred and lugubrious. Maudlin tears leaked from his eyes. “Not waited for a father-killer to tell you how to wipe your arses. Beynor murdered King Linndal! He’s a monster. And he uses filthy Beaconfolk magic. He’ll ruin us! Oh, gods—he’ll bring the wrath of the Lights down on us, just like the old witch said!”
“We don’t know that Beynor killed his father, sire.” Honigalus tried to calm the agitated king. “Why should we take the word of a crazed woman? She was lying, making trouble. And now she’s dead, destroyed by Beynor’s thunderbolt. Here. Let me top off your cup.”
Achardus batted the flagon aside and it fell to the carpeted deck, spewing colorless liquid. “Woe!” the king moaned. “Witch Walanoth howled about woe. Warned us. But we didn’t listen. Woe…”
His huge body began to crumple. Honigalus and Somarus hastened to take hold of him, staggering under his enormous weight, and guided him to a large padded couch. Achardus collapsed on his back, and the younger men loosened his clothing and took off his boots. “Gonna puke,” the King of Did-ion whispered. Somarus held a silver basin while Honigalus supported Achardus’s head. He subsided then, bloodshot eyes half-closed and breath coming in slow, rasping surges.
“Let’s cover him. Go to sleep ourselves,” Honigalus mumbled. The princes finished tending to their father, then shuffled off unsteadily to their cabins.
Ullanoth watched the sleeping giant for a few minutes before going to her own secret bed. But not to sleep.
Beynor only thought to look inside the platinum case late on that awful night of humiliation, just before going to bed. He had some confused notion of comforting himself with dreams of future triumph, when he would finally empower Destroyer and the Unknown and become a sorcerer greater than Rothbannon. His brain was so addled by wine that at first he could not understand why the velvet nests were all empty. He stumbled about his chambers in his nightshirt, pawing through chests and cabinets, throwing down the contents of shelves, whimpering as the frightful realization took slow root and grew.
Gone. Both Great Stones were gone, and only one person could have taken them.
He screamed and screamed then until his throat was raw, but inside the walls of Fortress, no one could hear him.
“Will there be anything more, Your Grace?” Snudge waited at the open door of Conrig’s room after having ushered in all of the Heart Companions for a meeting with the prince. The travelers were established for the night in the mansion of the Lord Mayor of Melora, which was a prosperous small city on the River Blen. It marked the southern terminus of the Great North Road leading to Beorbrook Hold, and ultimately to Great Pass.
Only three of the ten young noblemen who attended Conrig and Vra-Stergos knew that their party would be heading in another direction with the dawn, taking the eastern road to Castle Vanguard. It was to apprise the others of the true nature of the expedition that Conrig had called the meeting.
Snudge had been delegated to inform the armigers.
“You may go now,” Conrig told him, “and see that you also make plain to the boys your special status.”
Snudge bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him, and hurried down the deserted corridor. Members of the mayor’s household were discreetly absent from this part of the house.
Codders! Snudge thought. Here comes trouble! By rights Belamil Langsands, the stocky level-headed squire who attended Count Sividian, and the oldest of them at nineteen, acted as the leader of the armigers and transmitted royal commands and announcements. But Conrig had been adamant that Snudge was to do the job tonight.
“It’s time the lads acknowledge your particular place in our picked body of warriors,” the prince had said. “And time for you to show that you have the stones to occupy your new position. You are not merely a squire, you are my blooded man. Tell the others about your encounter with Iscannon—but not about his sigil. They must know nothing of your talent, of course, but you may make up some tale about being no stranger to magic if you think it will better dispose them toward eventually accepting you as their leader.”
Taken aback, Snudge found himself gawping with astonishment. “I, Your Grace? But Belamil—”
“He’s a brave young man and trustworthy, but hardly the one to lead a troop guarding Princess Ullanoth during the battle for Holt Mallburn.”
“Your Grace, wouldn’t it be more fitting if you assigned several of your Companions to this service? The lady might take offense at being offered an escort of mere armigers.”
“It matters not how she regards you,” Conrig retorted. “She’s bound to come to us after we enter Mallburn Town, and I have reasons of my own for keeping her apart even from my closest friends. The boys won’t dare question her and they’ll keep her safe from obvious physical dangers. While you, my Snudge, oversee her magicking as best you can—more unobtrusively, I hope, than any Brother of Zeth. Thus far, Ullanoth knows nothing of your talent. I wish this state of affairs to continue.”
“So… you don’t really trust her after all.” The boy barely concealed his relief.
“I trust her to do as she promised,” the prince had said, “aiding us to conquer Didion. What she does subsequently, while I’m too occupied by the fighting or its aftermath to stay close to her, may be a cause for concern. Or not!” He shrugged, but his eyes were shadowed. “Perhaps our stratagem will prove unnecessary—or even impossible to implement. But I want you to be prepared, and the squires as well. I realize I’ve given you no clear instructions in this matter, but there can be none until circumstances dictate.”
Snudge could only say, “I understand, Your Grace. Rely on me.”
He squared his shoulders as he entered the common room of the mayor’s household warriors, which had been cleared of furniture so that the armigers could bed down there.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” redheaded Mero Elwick called out snidely. “We’d despaired of having you join us, thinking His Grace might want you to sleep on the floor outside his door like a faithful hound.”
A few of the boys laughed. Snudge said quietly, “If His Grace had requested that, I would have obeyed. But instead he’s sent me here with an important message for all of you.”
There were surprised comments, and Saundar Kersey, Count Tayman’s armiger, asked, “Does it pertain to our mission?”
“It does indeed,” Snudge said. “Let’s gather round the fire. It’s a damp evening, with the fog coming on so thick.”
“May I pour you a warm
libation, messire?” Mero inquired with mock courtesy, reaching for the steaming cider-pot on the hob.
“That would be a kindness,” said Snudge, giving over his new silver cup, one of the gifts of his investiture.
“Oops!” Mero let the goblet slip from his hand and ding on the hearthstone. “Not much harm done, young Deveron.” He chuckled and managed to slop some of the hot drink on Snudge’s wrist as he returned it.
“Thank you,” the boy said, without rancor. Belamil and a few of the others scowled at Mero’s spiteful display, but most of them were only interested in what Snudge would say next. “Prince Conrig has kept our true destination secret in order to foil enemy windwatchers. We are not going to reinforce Beorbrook Hold and guard Great Pass. Instead, we’ll ride tomorrow to Swanwick, and on the third day arrive at Castle Vanguard, where we’ll join an army poised to invade Didion over Breakneck Pass.”
A tumult of shouting. Finally, Belamil cried out, “Let Deveron speak.”
The others fell silent and watched him solemnly. Even Mero’s usual sour expression had vanished.
“A couple of weeks ago, five of us lads accompanied Prince Conrig, Lord Stergos, and Counts Sividian, Feribor, and Tayman to Castle Vanguard. There the prince conferred with Duke Tanaby, Earl Marshal Beorbrook, and fifteen other nobles of the north country at a great council of war. It was decided to invade Didion over Breakneck Pass at the end of the Boreal Moon.”
There were excited exclamations. Snudge plowed on. “The army will number only about five hundred warriors. We’ll move with the greatest speed possible, riding coursers, not heavy destriers. We’ll be armored only in mail but carry ample weapons. Magical allies who have created this thick fog will guide us over the mountain pass and help us to take the enemy outposts by surprise. Our army will press on to Holt Mallburn and there, with the help of more magical assistance, we will set parts of the city afire with tarnblaze as a distraction and enter the palace of Achardus through wide-open portals. This last feat will also be successfully accomplished through magical aid.”