Conqueror's Moon

by Julian May

  I know my brother charged you with a warrior’s duty, but he’s a ruthless man and you’re—ah, you’re—

  “I’m Conrig’s liege man. Farewell, Doctor. If you do speak to His Grace, tell him he can depend on me.”

  Snudge opened his eyes to the ghostly mountainside and thumped Primmie gently in the ribs. Obediently, the loaded mule continued downslope on rag-wrapped hooves. It was an intelligent beast for all its bad temper, and it had quickly learned to follow the parade of five glowing specks that wafted just ahead of it, floating a foot or so above the ground.

  Queen Cataldise opened the door to the king’s bedchamber when she heard the gentle scratching. “Vra-Sulkorig. It’s rather early. Has something important happened?”

  The Acting Royal Alchymist’s face lit up at the sound of notes being plucked expertly from a lute. “His Grace is awake, then?” The time was shortly after dawn.

  The queen sighed. “Revising his Deathsong again. He slept poorly last night and did not wish to waste the time. I’ve also had very little sleep. What do you want?”

  “I do have significant news, Your Grace.”

  The lute music stopped. “Well, come and tell me about it, man!” growled the king.

  Sulkorig approached the enormous bed. The ailing monarch was propped up on a pile of pillows, holding the stringed instrument. His lap table held parchment and writing materials, and he was surrounded by ranks of lighted candelabra on silver-gilt stands.

  “Lord Stergos has received a two-word windspoken message: Warships gone. He believes it came from Princess Ullanoth in the Didionite capital city, but cannot be sure. The lady herself is supposedly in ill health after accomplishing some notable feat of magic. The Doctor Arcanorum believes we must take the message very seriously and presume that the war fleet of Crown Prince Honigalus has set sail from Holt Mallburn and intends to attack Cala.”

  Olmigon nodded slowly. He began to retune one of the lute strings, picking at it in a finicky fashion. “Did you have our own Brothers scry up Didion way?”

  “Your Grace, the distance is too far, even for our most talented windwatchers working in unison. If the winds are favorable to them, the enemy ships might reach the vicinity of the Vigilant Isles in four to five days.” The alchymist tactfully accommodated the king’s failing memory. “Didion’s fleet strength, as you know, is around forty men o‘ war, with at least eighteen triple-tier barques carrying up to sixty guns apiece and more than twenty two-decker frigates with twenty-six guns or more. All of the heavy warships might not have sailed, of course.”

  Olmigon finished his tuning and strummed an ominous minor chord. “What about the damned Continentals?”

  “Teams of adepts riding small sloops have been plying the Dolphin Channel, keeping watch twenty-four hours a day, as closely as their powers allow. So far, there seems to be no suspicious movement of ships from ports in Stippen or Foraile.”

  “And the Tarnian mercenaries?”

  Sulkorig’s grave expression brightened. “There, at least, we have good tidings. I didn’t wish to disturb your rest unnecessarily, but late last night we were bespoken by the shaman of Sealord Yons Stormchild. Our grain ships have made port, and he has ordered twenty well-armed frigates, carrying extra supplies of tarnblaze, to sail south on the dawn tide.”

  “Thank God! ”cried Cataldise.

  Olmigon glowered. “You should have come and told me—whatever the hour.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. From now on, it will be done.” The wizard’s eyes slid reproachfully toward those of the queen, who looked innocent. On her orders, the king had remained undisturbed.

  “See that our captains at sea are informed.”

  “It’s already done, Your Grace.”

  “Very well, you may leave us.”

  The alchymist bowed and made his exit. King Olmigon gave his wife a level stare and then bent over his lute, playing a brief, haunting melody as nicely as any court minstrel. By ancient custom he was forbidden to sing the song aloud until the time that he felt death approaching. “What do you think?” he said. “Isn’t that tune better than the old one?”

  She had seated herself in an easy chair near the candles and opened a book. Now she looked up at him with tears glinting in her eyes. “My love, you must satisfy yourself. The song is your own to compose, and I know you are obliged to do it. But the thought of your singing it breaks my heart.”

  “Sweet Catty!” The king chuckled. “I need a more stringent music critic for an honest opinion. Bring Maudrayne to see me later today. She’s never shy about telling me what she thinks.”

  The queen gave a little start. “But… our daughter-in-law is ill, as you know. A weakness of the chest brought on by the long journey to Zeth. She still cannot leave her apartment.”

  “Then I’ll go visit her. I’m feeling lively enough today. You come, too. We can all have tea together. Why, I haven’t seen the dear girl in over a week.”

  “No!” Cataldise said wildly. “I mean—she is in no condition to receive us. The alchymists have forbidden her visitors.”

  Olmigon frowned, setting his lute aside. “If Maudie is so seriously ill, why wasn’t I told? You know how I feel about her. What the hell’s wrong?”

  The queen burst into tears.

  “Stop that!” the king thundered. “Madam, tell me at once what ails the Crown Princess!”

  After much sniffling into her lace handkerchief, Queen Cataldise confessed what had been done on Conrig’s orders. “Maudrayne threatened to leave him, to run away to Tarn. Con even feared she might compromise his invasion plans out of spite. She thinks he betrayed her with another woman, but it’s all nonsense—”

  “What other woman?”

  “Ullanoth of Moss,” the queen admitted reluctantly. “But Con assured me it wasn’t so! He’s a faithful husband who only wishes to protect Maudrayne from her own folly.”

  The king lowered himself to his pillows, groaning. “The witch! Of course it would be the witch.” He hauled himself up again, eyes burning. “Who’s giving Maudie the vile potions? That sour-faced old prune Sovanna Ironside?”

  “Stergos gave Lady Sovanna appropriate medicines for the princess before he left the palace. He assured me they were entirely harmless. Vra-Sulkorig has also attended Maudrayne when it seemed… when she was too apathetic to eat. But she is in excellent health now, except for being languid and disinclined to cause trouble.”

  “Maudie? Languid? Great God, woman! The drugging must stop at once. I command it.”

  “She’ll run away.” The queen’s dolorous face took on an obstinate expression. “That must not happen. I promised Conrig that his wife would be here when he returned victorious.”

  “Then lock her in her bloody chambers,” Olmigon raged. “But no more filthy poisons. Swear it to me!”

  More tears began to trickle from the queen’s eyes. She nodded blindly. “I swear on my soul that I’ll do as you say. But we can’t allow her to run away to Tarn and put Con to shame on the very eve of his Sovereignty.”

  Olmigon’s face had gone red and his eyes bulged in fury. “Humiliate Conrig? What about poor Maude’s humiliation if our son lied about Ullanoth? What about—” He broke off with a sudden cry, more a cough than a grunt, clutching at his upper arm. When he was able to speak again his voice was querulous and nearly inaudible. “Catty. Oh, God, how it hurts.”

  Queen Cataldise leapt up from her chair and came to him. “Husband?”

  But he had fallen back onto the pillows, his eyes half-closed and his lips gone blue. The queen fled from the room in a panic, screaming for the alchymists.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  We have reached the ruined outpost, human. It lies on your left, halfway up the wall of the ravine—what’s left of it.

  Hee hee! You can’t see in the fog, but a great rock came down on the guardhouse roof and smashed it to flinders. This is the place where you wanted to stop. We’re about halfway to the place you call Redfern.

&n
bsp; Snudge reined in Primmie. “We’ll rest for a while, old boy. There’s a bit of grass and you can have some water.” He dismounted and led the mule to the stream that paralleled the downhill track through the gorge. The mist was thinner there and a sizable pine tree grew on the bank. Bending and stretching, he smote his aching inner thighs with closed fists. After a cold drink, he sat down on an exposed tree root and began to chew on a piece of sausage.

  Between bites he addressed the spunkies: “My friends, two of you please go on ahead and look for enemy humans on the trail. I doubt any patrol will venture far from the castle in this fog, but we have to be sure. Douse your lights and fly as fast as you can, and return quickly to tell what you’ve found.”

  Tinkling giggles. And if we find a wandering Didionite patrol, may we eat it?

  “No, God damn it! Remember what Shanakin told you. No feeding! If you must, frighten the soldiers back to the castle or lead them astray to their doom. But if you drink their blood, I’ll see that your master punishes you severely.”

  Spoilsport!

  Two sparks winked out and Snudge presumed the little beings were on their way. He hoped they’d follow orders and restrain themselves.

  In spite of attempts to keep Sir Ruabon’s murder secret, numbers of the knights had found out about it from the dead man’s two friends and reacted with both anger and apprehension. The mutinous undercurrent was halfhearted thus far. But if the attack force, which had set out from the summit an hour or so after Snudge, should chance upon a heap of eerily drained Didionite corpses, the consequences might be disastrous.

  “You other Small Lights,” Snudge said, beckoning, “gather near me. I have something to show you.”

  The three remaining spunkie guides hovered expectantly before the boy. For this special mission, he had left his armor, gambeson, military cloak, and armiger’s weaponry with Ord Sedgewick. He wore his spare outfit, a simple wool tunic and trews, and had a raggedy pony-blanket as an improvised cape. He pulled from his shirt a small thing that hung on a thong around his neck and slowly removed its covering. The sigil named Concealer glowed softly in the murk.

  Yeee! squealed the creatures. A Hiding Stone!

  “So you know what this is. Good! I’m going to use it to accomplish my task at Castle Redfern. As a matter of fact, I intend to make myself and the mule invisible from here on during our journey, so that I can get used to it. I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

  There followed a distressed chittering. Bad magic! Great Light magic! You’ll be sorry if you use it, human.

  Snudge felt his heart thudding in his breast. I’m not afraid! he told himself, and turned his back on the agitated spunkies, tucking the sigil into his clothing so that it rested against his bare flesh. Then he swung himself back into the mule’s saddle and spoke the words that would render him and the animal invisible.

  “BI DO FYSINEK. FASH AH.”

  The commotion made by the spunkies was cut off as by a slamming door. Night fell abruptly: black, icy, star-strewn. Overhead hung a single slow-blooming patch of gauzy scarlet radiance shot through with restless beams of pale green. A sepulchral voice—one he’d heard before—spoke from the sky.

  CADAYANRUDAY?

  Oh, shite!

  Panic seized him. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way! Red Ansel had never warned him he might have to speak to the Light again when he first used the sigil… What were the bloody words? What what what?

  Yes!

  “GO—GO TUGA LUVKRO AN AY COMASH DOM.”

  KO AN SO? Asking his name.

  “Dev—” No, you dungpoke, not your true name! “SNUDGE. SNUDGE.”

  MMMMM. A very long, portentous silence. Then, almost in a tone of disappointment: THASHINAH GAV.

  Had this been some sort of a test? Did the Beaconfolk suspect the earlier subterfuge when he’d used his nickname, and were they now attempting to get a stronger hold on him? Perhaps. But this Light had apparently accepted his answer.

  Now to say thanks. “MO TENGALAH SHERUV.” And please—oh, God, please!—send me back to my own world.

  Dank grey fog lapped his face, while three fuzzy Small Lights danced anxiously around, buzzing like midges. He sat in the saddle and felt his mount stamp one muffled hoof, felt the stirrups supporting his booted feet, sensed the sloshing of the kegs in their nets tied fore and aft of his thighs. A vaguely uncomfortable warmth rested against his breastbone.

  He lifted his mittened hand in front of his eyes. It wasn’t there—any more than the rest of him was, or Primmie.

  “I’m gone!” he chortled, and the spunkies gave a shrill squeal of consternation and fled into the fog. “No, wait! Come back!” he called. “It’s all right. I’m only using magic to hide from the enemy. Come back!”

  A faint windspoken statement: You are a sorcerer. Like the lady!

  “Only a very young one. A beginner. Going invisible is the only important spell I know. Please come back. I won’t hurt you.” Some impulse made him add, “If you don’t hurt me.”

  The three Small Lights reappeared. One of them pointed something out to the others. Look very closely! See? The mist outlines his body and that of the animal.

  Oooh!

  Damn, Snudge thought. I’ll have to remember that. And Iscannon had cast a shadow when he hid behind Concealer. He said to the spunkies, “My friends, you’re far more clever at magic than I am if you can see me in the fog. Let’s just travel on to the castle with no more delay.”

  You promise to do no more Great Light magic?

  “I promise,” Snudge said. With a few disgruntled chirps and jingles, the three Small Lights took up their position just above the ground and floated off down the track. Primmie followed without urging.

  Snudge never did get a good look at Castle Redfern, although he was later to discover that the place was very small and poor. The fog surrounding it was the thickest he had yet encountered, rendering indistinct any object more than an ell distant. The ravine where the castle was situated was a muddle of spectral shadows. After being assured by the uncanny guides that no enemy warriors were on duty outside the stronghold, the boy had them lead him to the ramp of the fort’s raised drawbridge, which spanned a steep-walled watercourse that would have made a formidable barrier had it not been nearly bone-dry.

  “Can you thin the fog just a bit between here and the castle’s gatehouse?” he asked the spunkies. “I want the guards to be able to see me when I go visible again and call out to them.”

  … There!

  “Excellent. Now fly to the windvoices in the army following after me. They must approach with no noise at all and position themselves here, hidden in the fog and ready to attack when the drawbridge lowers and the gates open. Tell them that’ll probably happen very suddenly.”

  The spunkies peeped and disappeared.

  As Snudge prepared to speak the words that would render him visible again, he wondered whether he would face another confrontation with the Great Light. It would be horribly inconvenient if that happened each time he used the sigil— and probably fatal if the insubstantial monster in charge of lesser sigils asked him a question he couldn’t answer.

  Well… “BI FYSINEK. KRUF AH.”

  No mystical darkness, no querying Light. Only the swirling white fog of noontide and he himself, a drably dressed youth sitting on a big dun mule draped with cargo nets bulging with small kegs. Primmie’s hoof-muffling rags had been removed.

  “Hello, the castle!” Snudge shouted. “Hoy, hoy, hoy! Castle Redfern!”

  He had to continue for some minutes before a voice yelled from the blurry battlements above, “Who goes there?”

  He had his story ready. “I’m Lunn, son of Rek Warmergill, Royal Customs Officer of Rockport.” He gave them the name of the coastal town that was the eastern terminus of one fork of the Breakneck Track. “I’m sent with provisions you’ll welcome gladly! Five kegs of fine Langford malt spirits, part of a cargo taken from a Cathran coaster off Skellhaven by our val
iant local sailormen. Good King Achardus has ordered the frontier garrisons at Redfern and Highcliff to have a share of the loot as a token of his gratitude for loyal service.”

  The glaring improbability of such largesse from the notoriously stingy monarch during a time of naval blockade was lost on the sentry.

  “Spirits!” the awed man cried out. “Stand fast, lad, whilst I get the sergeant of the guard.”

  After a few minutes another voice, more authoritative and suspicious, called, “Are you all alone, then, young Lunn?”

  “Well, the load’s not large,” Snudge admitted, “although the proof of the liquor’s supposed to be superbly high. Dad sent me out when the royal order disposing of the contraband came through yesterday. My brother Rado went to Castle Highcliff, the lucky duck. The fog’s not nearly so bad near the coast. It took me forever to get here. I had to sleep rough on the trail last night, and I was sore tempted to broach one of these kegs to keep me warm. But I didn’t. Dad would skin me alive for messing with a royal gift.”

  “Wait,” said the voice, laughing.

  He did, and for a considerable time, praying that the lord of the castle would not think to have his wind adepts scan him, since he would not be visible to their talent. It would be even worse if the alchymists bespoke the authorities in Rockport to confirm his story.

  Evidently nothing of the sort happened. There was a great grinding noise and a scream of poorly greased windlasses. The drawbridge was coming down. Quickly, Snudge dismounted. He snatched a sixth keg of liquor from one of the nets and a coil of strong rawhide lashing that had been looped over the pommel, then rendered himself and his burden invisible and moved back until he was well into the fog. The bridge grounded with a thud, the castle gates opened, and a squad of guards marched out with halberds at the ready, led by their sergeant. They surrounded Primmie and examined the load.

  “Damn my eyes if it isn’t Snapevale Stillery malt!” The sergeant was overawed. “Booze fit for a king! But where’s that lad gone? Holla, boy!”