Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  Having paced the entire length of the Kygar’s deck in silence, they now stopped beside the forward catapult and looked back to the aft superstructure, where a middle-aged woman and an unhappy-looking youth were gazing across the water to Diomeda’s towers, villas, and domes.

  “What do you think—could it really be her?” asked Mandalock.

  “I have met the empress twice,” Forteron said, but he did not elaborate further.

  “As soon as the fighting was over she came out on deck and demanded to see me. She gave me the pennon of the empress and ordered that I fly it in place of my own arms and colors, then she claimed victory in her own name—at least, in the name of the empress. There were still arrows flying about, so I ordered two marines to drag her back to the royal cabin and lock her in. She screamed and kicked, and threatened to have us all boiled alive in olive oil, then flung a casting at one of the marines and set his clothes afire. It took all three ship’s ethersmiths to subdue her enough to be bound and gagged. Some hours later she was freed, but, while she has been behaving herself since then, she never ceases to tell us exactly what will happen once she is recognized as the true empress. I am very concerned.”

  “Justifiably so. There are important implications for us if she is speaking the truth.”

  “Oh yes, nobles like me are entitled to be boiled in hellfire oil, so the social disgrace of olive oil would be—”

  “Yes, yes, nobody is going to use the wrong oil, galleymaster. You may not even be boiled alive at all. You were just doing your duty.”

  “Well, yes, but the decision concerning her is above my station. That is when I sent for you.”

  Forteron continued to stare at the couple who stood at the aft rail. Of all his attributes, Forteron’s capacity for lateral thought was the one which served him best. He now brought it to bear with all the care and deliberation of a sniper aiming a crossbow.

  “When did you first meet the crown prince?” Forteron asked.

  “When he came aboard.”

  “No, I mean before this voyage.”

  “Never. I was really proud when the Kygar was chosen to carry the prince.”

  “And you’ve never seen the empress?”

  “Only on coins.”

  Forteron began to gather in the diverse and multitudinous pieces of the puzzle. He had met the empress twice, and on one of those occasions she had been having a blazing row with her son. Crown Prince Darric was not known for submissiveness; in fact, he was well known for having the ambition and drive of both of his parents. To Forteron, the Kygar’s passengers seemed more like the empress and the crown prince’s decoy. Were this the case, the real crown prince would be in Torea. Had he been in Torea when the continent burned, he would be dead.

  “Arrange for them to be confined under heavy guard,” said Forteron. “From now on, they are my responsibility.”

  The early days of revelation and shock over Torea’s demise were followed by a period of frantic reorganizing, planning, and maneuvering for power on Helion. The governor’s mansion in Port Wayside was declared to be Banzalo’s royal palace, and the blackstone fortress nearby was made the citadel, but the governor’s ambitions ranged well beyond ruling a speck of land in the middle of the ocean. To him, the catastrophe that had destroyed his homeland was merely a divine act of purification, removing both Warsovran’s contaminating invaders and those of his compatriots who were too lacking in courage and resolution to fight. The only true and worthy Vidarians were those who had fled to carry on the fight from exile. Return was their reward—in fact, it was also their duty.

  Baeberan Banzalo despatched five deepwater traders to survey the Torean coast for sites to settle, and to mine for gold. His plan was clear and simple: Vidaria had been freed from Warsovran by fire from the gods, and now the surviving Toreans had to return and reclaim what was theirs. Even the total annihilation of life from the face of Torea could not keep the continent dead for long.

  “You ordered this?” said Feran as Laron and he watched the Shadowmoon being beached amid a crowd of carpenters and shipwrights.

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you get the money?”

  “I have a way with ladies.”

  Of all possible answers that Laron might have given, this was the least convincing.

  “The Shadowmoon is a very small vessel, and Torea is a long way beyond the horizon.”

  “We got here from Torea, and this time we shall be properly provisioned.”

  “Oh, yes, well, that makes all the difference. Do we have to do anything in particular, or do we just poke at the melted rocks and sand in the ruins and say, ‘My, but that was a hot summer!’”

  Laron glanced about, then drew closer to Feran.

  “We are to find Silverdeath.”

  “Silverdeath? Silverdeath was destroyed, along with everything else in Torea. Everyone agrees about that. Regent Banzalo made a pronouncement; he said that it was destroyed like a fire arrow that is consumed by the house that it sets alight.”

  “Lies, guesswork, and wishful thinking. Silverdeath is no fire arrow, and if the weapon that destroyed Torea is still there, it can be taken by whoever would care to pick it up.”

  “What about stores?”

  “I have secured stores,” replied Laron, tossing a gold circar in the air and catching it.

  “And papers?”

  “We have papers to sail for Diomeda, once the embargo on sailing is lifted. That will be soon, or so I am told.”

  “So Banzalo is not to know that your destination is Torea?”

  “Banzalo wants power. With Silverdeath in his hands he could hold the world to ransom. We are to sail up the Dioran River, then walk overland to Larmentel.”

  “But one of Banzalo’s ships has already been sent to guard the harbor at Gironal, where the Dioran River reaches the sea.”

  “That is only to guard the river mouth, and the melted gold in Gironal. The Shadowmoon can slip past a single deepwater trader, remember? We have a very good chance of recovering Silverdeath if we leave within a few days. According to the old writings, it should have resumed its quiescent shape and fallen from the sky after the quenching of the last and greatest fire-circle.”

  “If—and I say if—the weapon fell from the sky as soon as the last fire-circle was exhausted, it would have fallen into a lake of molten glass and rock, and sunk to the bottom. By now it may be sealed beneath hundreds of feet of solidified glass and rock. Who would bother to try to recover it?”

  “Warsovran bothered to have sixty thousand men digging for three years to find it. Besides, it may have drifted down slowly, landing only after the lake solidified.”

  “But now we know it can only be used to destroy continents. Who would dare to use it?”

  “There are four living continents marked on maps of the known world. What is to stop the finder from demonstrating it on some rocky outcrop, just off the coast of Lemtas or Acrema? The sea would quench it at the first fire-circle, but it would still be very impressive. If you ruled an Acreman kingdom and saw that sort of power unleashed, would not you make haste to sign a surrender?”

  Laron scribbled on a slate for some minutes, then began to make some estimates aloud. “If the island was only a few hundred yards across and far enough from the coast … perhaps the fire might not spread and regenerate. My studies of the figures and maps indicate that once the fire burned over an area where its circumference was all over water, it ceased to cycle. Yes, it could probably be demonstrated in safety, while easily visible from shore.”

  “That still does not tell me where we are going to find the horses for the overland journey, and how we are going to dig through a lake of solid glass.”

  “No horses are needed,” said Laron as he began unrolling a map of Torea. “Larmentel lies at the edge of the Western Plains. The Bax River, a navigable tributary of the Dioran, passes fifteen miles to the south. The Shadowmoon could go at least half that distance with sweeps and prevailing winds, then w
e could take the gigboat when the current becomes stronger in the upper reaches.”

  “The gigboat could carry only a dozen men before the water came in over the edge. We would need hundreds to dig for the Silverdeath.”

  “I never said to dig for it. It may be on the surface. If not, we just need a sorcerer of sufficient skill to determine that it is sealed in there. I have arranged this, of course.”

  “And if it is?”

  “Then Silverdeath’s recovery becomes the problem of somebody else.”

  Feran raised his arms to the dusky sky, then let them flop to his sides.

  “All right, then. Pah, I still don’t see what anyone expects to find there. You were the first to land on Torea after the fire-circles had done with it. The stone bollards were so hot that the corrak’s mooring-rope burned and I had to stay aboard and paddle to prevent it drifting. I actually saw smoke rising from your clogs with every step you took. Torea has been dipped in hell’s furnace.”

  “Be that as it may, but it is what we may not find that chills me.”

  Feran walked off to supervise the work on the Shadowmoon. Laron stood watching the work on the vessel begin, then set off for the port. Terikel met him in the marketplace as he was buying provisions.

  “So, repairs have commenced?” asked Terikel.

  “Yes.”

  “And Feran is happy?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I would be surprised if he had been. Are you sure you can survive the voyage? There will be none but those aboard the Shadowmoon to sustain you.”

  “I can survive on birds and fish.”

  “But you say that humans taste better.”

  “Unlike Feran, I know something of restraint.”

  The crates of archives had been stored in a cave near the shrine. The interior was illuminated by oil lamps, and there was no furniture other than a bench and table. Druskarl had volunteered to help, feeling sorry for the terrified Velander, and even Laron had offered to inspect the crates for vulnerabilities.

  Laron picked up a crate by himself and carried it out of the cave in full view of the astonished priestesses and deaconesses. In order to spare the other crates from damage, or even set off a chain reaction of explosions, he had wanted the crate in an open space. He began to conduct his tests. Sure enough, the guard autons were like the thick iron bars in the windows of a dungeon. Primitive, but very, very strong. After an hour, even those watching from a distance lost interest, and left to go about their business.

  Laron looked up into the night sky, where the stars were fuzzy balls of light and Miral was like a patch of green fog. Glorious, he thought. Would Ninth like it? He reached into his pack and drew out an assortment of tubes, lenses, spheres, crystals, and other etheric instruments. Almost reverently he took out the oracle sphere, mounted it in the cup, and set it on the crate. He spoke a casting and placed the greenstone sphere in the rim of the cup.

  This time Ninth was there immediately.

  Laron was astounded. Sometimes the thing worked, but only sometimes. The elemental looked out from her prison at the night sky as Laron moved the tube of lenses for her. Miral was near the zenith, and two other moonworlds gleamed intensely near the horizon. All but the brightest stars were swamped by Miral’s light. Ninth’s grasp of Diomedan was much better by now. Laron had even begun teaching her Scalticarian.

  “The blue moonworld is Belvia, and the orange one is Dalsh,” he explained as he moved the tube of lenses. “Lupan is not up just now, but it is white.”

  “What is this world?”

  “Verral is the most common name. It is Diomedan for ‘soil of home’.”

  “Strange, but wonderful,” said Ninth. “What are the stars like when Miral is down?”

  “I have never been conscious when Miral is down”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  Definitely embarrassed, Laron thought.

  “When you are restored, you will be as free to walk beneath a sky without Miral as anyone else on this world. That will be very soon, I suspect.”

  “What you mean?”

  “I am trying to locate another oracle frame.”

  “When you find it, what then?”

  “I will mount your oracle sphere within the claws. If a maid under the influence of a sleeping potion were to wear the frame, you would be able to walk, talk, see, and feel as if her body was your own.”

  “Until she awoke?”

  “Yes.”

  “Laron, while you sleep does your body’s owner return?”

  “No. When I was summoned here, I was entrapped like you. My captors questioned me about the scholarship of my world, and in particular whether we knew about mounting the oracle spheres in the silver circlets. Presently I had an idea. Upon the soil of Earth I was one of the walking dead, so why not here, too? I told the priest who was questioning me to put my oracle sphere into a circlet, and mount it on the corpse of someone just recently dead. As I had hoped, I brought the corpse vitality, and enormous strength. I sprang from the table, snapped the priest’s neck, and drank his blood. From his notes I discovered that very occasionally oracle spheres have been put on people who have lost their souls without dying, and these can become animate with any soul trapped within an oracle sphere.”

  “How can people lose their souls without dying?”

  “Ah, now, that is for another time, and after you have learned a lot more words.”

  “Laron! Your image! Wobbling, flickering … I—”

  The link to Ninth failed. Laron put everything into his pack and carried the crate back into the cave. He apologized to the Elder for being able to do nothing for her, then returned to Port Wayside. He had not noticed that the guard auton protecting the crate had become so severely drained that it had quietly collapsed.

  Druskarl and Velander opened the second crate, but were astonished to find no guard auton. On the other hand, it contained nothing but a complete and definitive run of registers, official histories, and other useful but uninteresting reference works.

  Velander watched Druskarl pull a board away from the third crate, noting the faintest trace of an orange sparkle that gleamed for a moment on the barhook’s point.

  “Put the barhook down and get back,” said Velander as the nails squealed clear of the wood.

  “But, Worthy Sister—”

  “Put it down! Back away.”

  Druskarl did as he was told. Velander dropped to her knees before the crate. A board was now gone, and both books and bound records were visible within. There was a musty smell on the air, and dust motes danced in the lamplight. The gleam of something silver caught Druskarl’s eye.

  Velander picked up the loose board and prodded it through the gap. At once there was a crackling snap, and a flickering orange band snared the board and began to contract. The wood compressed, splintered, and was finally sliced through with a crisp snick. An orange sphere hung in the air for a moment, then vanished back into the crate. Wisps of smoke curled up, slowly dispersing.

  “Guard auton,” she whispered.

  “It could have been my hand!” Druskarl exclaimed, visibly shaken as he held his hand before his face, rotating it as if to confirm that it was still attached.

  Slowly Velander extended her hand toward the opening.

  Terikel made her way down to the port and the Midway Inn. Miral was not yet above the horizon, so she sat down to wait. It was not a place where respectable women were normally seen, but she was a priestess, and her Order was known for its work among the harlots of the port. Two of them were among the deaconesses soon to be ordained. Most of the patrons of the Midway Inn were Acreman sailors and merchants. Druskarl was among them, showing a glass vinegar flask to the Acreman and Scalticarian drinkers for a few coppers a look. She suspected that his testicles were within.

  After a time he noticed her and came over. He explained that Velander had been badly burned and lost two fingernails to the guard auton.

  “Serves the little demon right,” Terikel r
eplied. “Still, she was luckier than those two deaconesses.”

  “Serionese is determined to have whatever is in the crates.”

  “Well, she can afford to lose three more of her followers before she has to ask me for help again. The woman’s a fool; they were right to exile her here.”

  Just then Laron came down the steps, the new beard carefully stuck to his face. As he sat down with them, Druskarl pushed back his stool and stood up.

  “No, stay,” said Laron. “I hear that you want passage away from Helion.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. The locals are less than friendly to Acremans, even though they no longer murder them.”

  “There is room on the Shadowmoon, but I cannot pay you.”

  “I shall work for my berth.”

  “Will you? Then you have a place with us. We are bound for Diomeda.”

  Druskarl sat down again, and this time he was smiling.

  “Druskarl was telling me that the archive crates and their guard autons are proving difficult,” said Terikel. “The score is two dead and one injured—in favor of the crates.”

  “For what?” Laron asked. “Serionese doesn’t even know what is within them.”

  “One was unguarded, it just contained archives,” said Druskarl. “We pried a board off another. It was guarded by an auton, but contained much the same, as far as I could see.”

  “No treasure?”

  “Only a silver tiara or circlet.”

  Laron blinked, then swallowed. “Describe it.”

  “Oh, just a starburst of silver with seven thin bands to secure it to the head. It’s nicely wrought and inscribed, but the central jewel is missing. There were three claw mountings to hold it in place, and they were all bent back.”