Conqueror’s Moon (11 page)

Damn you! You won’t! You won’t do that to me!

His dagger vibrated with the last drumbeat throb of a stricken human heart. He heard the frenzied windcry—Beynor!—and those eyes bright with dreadful life turned flat and dull and dead, only to open again and threaten and freeze and die once more.

He prayed for sleep, but it would not come.

seven

The king had already closed his eyes when Vra-Kilian Blackhorse came into the royal bedchamber in Cala Palace, scowling like the wrath of God, and commanded everyone to withdraw. The hovering courtiers and Princess Maudrayne and her red-bearded barbarian shaman went out obediently, but Queen Cataldise had no fear of her imperious older brother and refused to budge.

“I won’t have you upsetting the King’s Grace, Kilian,” she said, gentle but inexorable. “He has just taken a sleeping draft. Any news of our troublous son Conrig can wait until morning. Please go away and let us be.”

“It’s all right, Catty,” murmured the king. His eyes opened and he beckoned the Royal Alchymist to come close. The two men were the same age, five-and-fifty; but the monarch was a pale and flabby ruin of a man once stalwart and handsome, while the wizard retained a well-muscled body beneath his scarlet robes, and his close-cut black hair and tidy beard were barely touched with grey.

“I have no news from the Prince Heritor,” Vra-Kilian said dourly. “Stergos was adamant that Conrig would reveal to you the results of the war council’s deliberation only face-to-face. He’s leaving Castle Vanguard on the day after tomorrow, but he has at least three days’ ride ahead of him, perhaps more if the weather turns bad.”

The king gave a groan of dismay. “It’s my own fault. He doesn’t trust me, and small wonder… but I can’t wait for him. Every day’s precious now! I must set out for Zeth Abbey while I still have the strength.” A hand crept out of the bedclothes and gripped that of the alchymist with surprising vigor. The sick man struggled to rise while both Kilian and Cataldise hastened to restrain him. Windspeak Abbas Noachil at once. Tell him to expect me. I will make the Pilgrimage and ask my one Question!“

The alchymist’s dismayed gaze met that of the queen. She shook her head. “He’s spoken of little else since you left us earlier this evening, Brother. Since… the Tarnian healer delivered his final diagnosis.”

“Your Grace,” Kilian said to the king, “your duty to Cathra is to regain your good health, not endanger it by undertaking a long and arduous journey for such a fanciful reason. Abbas Noachil would be the first to tell you that this so-called oracle—”

“Nevertheless,” the king interrupted. “I intend to make the pilgrimage.”

“I forbid it,” said Vra-Kilian. “You are gravely ill. As the Royal Alchymist, charged by Saint Zeth to preserve the spiritual and bodily life of the King’s Grace, it is my obligation—”

“Be silent!” said Olmigon in a voice abruptly loud and resolute. Kilian blinked in amazement. “The cavalcade will leave Cala Palace tomorrow morning at first light. I’ve already commanded the Lord Chamberlain to make all preparations, and you countermand my orders at your peril, Brother-in-Law! This is one time you’ll not get your way. Furthermore, you’ll accompany us on the trip to the abbey so I can be certain you don’t get up to mischief with the Privy Council while I’m gone. Now get out of here and leave me in peace.”

Vra-Kilian inclined his head. “As you command, sire.” Radiating glacial disapproval, he swept out of the chamber.

“Catty?” whispered the king, when the door had closed.

“Yes, my dearest love.” The queen came to him, setting straight his nightcap, which had fallen awry with his exertions, and patted his hand before putting it back beneath the coverlet.

“You don’t think I’m being fanciful, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“That Kilian! Thinking he could forbid me to do something. The man takes too much on himself.”

“He’s only thinking of your welfare,” said the queen.

“Huh! He makes fun of the oracle. Probably Conrig would, too.”

“You must do as you think best, husband.”

“Yes. I’m the king.”

She kissed his cheek. “High King of Blencathra and absolute monarch of my heart.”

He let out a gusty sigh. “Conrig said he’d make me Sovereign of Blenholme. The young idiot!”

“I think not,” Cataldise said firmly.

“So you take the boy’s part, do you?” He spoke with more disappointment than anger.

“Conrig is an extraordinary young man, not a boy. You know that for the truth. Our son is not always tactful, I must admit, but he has a remarkable grasp of statecraft.”

“Damn him! Everyone thinks he’s brainier than I am. You’ll never catch Kilian or Falmire patronizing him in the Privy Council meetings the way they do me.”

“You are wise in your own way, husband. But Conrig’s arguments for Sovereignty were cogent and impressive. Even those members of your council who opposed him conceded the logic of his position—as you did, in the end. It wasn’t Conrig’s fault that… King Achardus responded to the Edict in an uncivilized manner.”

Olmigon turned his face away from her. “I made a terrible mistake, Catty, promulgating the Edict without a show of force. I realize that now. The slaughter of the delegation lies heavy on my conscience. And the sea blockade’s a failure, too, even though Tothor Dundry and his lick-spittles in the Admiralty are too stubborn to admit it. Last week I conferred with other fighting captains—bluewater sailors, not parchment-shuffling peacocks— who weren’t afraid to tell me the truth. There’s calamity brewing. I can feel it in my bones. I’ve never had such a horrid premonition before. Conrig thinks he’s so clever, trying to organize a land invasion of Didion. But what if he’s misread the situation and the real danger threatens us from the sea? What then?”

“The Question you would ask of the oracle,” the queen said in a soothing tone, hoping to distract him. “Will it pertain to our son’s proposed war against Didion? Is it your desire to assist Conrig in some way, perhaps by asking how such an enterprise might best succeed?”

A mulish expression darkened Olmigon’s face. “Maybe. Curse the boy! Why did he have to go behind my back, plotting with Vanguard and Beorbrook?”

“They are the best military leaders in the kingdom,” Cataldise replied placidly. “He wanted their advice and needs their approval and assistance.”

“But I’m the king.” His words were slurred, and he fought in vain to keep his eyelids open as the sedative drug took effect. “I’m the king, Catty. I don’t give a damn if Con loves me. But he has to respect me. The Question… I’m going to know what’U happen!… Ask old Bazekoy…”

“Yes, love,” said the queen. “Tomorrow we’ll be on our way. But for now, go to sleep.”

==========

Olmigon Wincantor, High King of Blencathra, set out on his pilgrimage during the last week of the Hunter’s Moon, after leaving with the Lord Chancellor a writ commanding Prince Conrig to await his return before undertaking any military action against Didion.

The cavalcade was a modest one. Queen Cataldise and Conrig’s wife, Princess Maudrayne, shared the great coach with the ailing king. Drawn by eight strong horses, it had wheels two ells in diameter and was hung from steel blade-springs to give a more gentle ride. The spacious interior was padded leather, with a bed for the invalid set up along one side and places for the women on the other, together with compartments for all manner of necessary supplies. The Royal Alchymist, the king’s valet, and two lords-in-waiting occupied another coach that followed, and a third bore the Master of Wardrobe, two of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, a tirewoman to deal with the fine laundry, and the Royal Cook. At the last minute, Princess Maudrayne’s chief lady-in-waiting had come down with the grippe and could not join the party, so one of the queen’s ladies was commanded to attend her. Ten knights of the household rode horseback at the head of the procession, and at the rear was a contingent of the King’s Guard and a dozen minor retainers.

The procession moved northwestward over the excellent Cathran highroads. Vra-Kilian estimated that it would take ten days to travel the three hundred leagues to Zeth, moving slowly but steadily. They would press on well into dusk, when spunkie lights rose from the hedgerows and swales and danced in the groundmists, until they reached a suitable castle or large manor house, whose resident windvoice had received advance notice from the Royal Alchymist of the king’s imminent arrival. The train would continue on its journey at dawn the following morning.

It passed through Wincantor Duchy’s stubbled grain fields, now with cattle and sheep turned out in them to glean fallen corn and enrich the soil with their manure. Further north, the acreage was striped black and green, burnt-over fallow fields and those sown with winter wheat. In the orchard country of the Blen River valley, mills were crushing fruit and barreling the juice, filling the air with the luscious scent of fermenting cider and perry. The last crops were being harvested from the market gardens, and farm wagons loaded with cabbages, beets, carrots, and onions trundled south toward Cala, pulling onto the verge to allow the king’s party to pass in the opposite direction. After crossing the great bridge at Heathley, the train came into hill country, upland pastures where the island’s finest blood-horses were bred, and rougher places where sheep grazed.

At every town and village along the way, free folk and serfs gathered along the roadside in silent respect. But no one cheered and no children strewed the way with autumn flowers, for Olmigon was not a ruler beloved by the commonalty— nor by the burgesses and nobles, either. He was apparently fated to be remembered as a remote, self-absorbed king of no distinction, controlled by venal and self-serving advisers, loved only by a handful of intimate courtiers, most of his children, and the two royal women who attended him on this final pilgrimage.

Olmigon himself was not unaware of this melancholy state of affairs but had always managed to shunt it aside—until the Tarnian shaman dared to pronounce his death sentence. At that point inspiration had come to him, vivid as a bolt of lightning. In asking his one Question, foolish old King Olmigon Wincantor believed he had one last chance at glory.

Ironically, he was correct.

==========

The road steepened and became more narrow as the entourage left settled lands and approached the looming ramparts of the Bladewind Crags, which gleamed white in the hazy sun. By the tenth day of the journey, the route had become little more than a rutted, rocky track. From time to time the royal coach lurched violently, causing the sick man to utter soft moans. But when the queen and princess bent over him they saw that he continued to sleep soundly.

“Red Ansel’s medicine is still doing its good work,” Princess Maudrayne said, touching the king’s brow. “There is no fever or sweating. Let us check the belly-binding.”

“The healer should have come with us,” Queen Cataldise said resentfully. “You should have insisted. What kind of a doctor abandons his patient?”

“Ansel had done all he could for the King’s Grace. He was urgently needed at the bedside of the Tarnian ambassador’s small daughter. If need be, Vra-Kilian can windspeak him for medical consultation at any time.”

“It’s not the same thing,” the queen fussed. “His obligation is to my husband and to the Crown, who will be paying his fee as well as his traveling expenses— not to a mere sick child.”

Maudrayne said coldly, “A man such as Ansel Pikan is not a hired hand nor a common doctor to be ordered about like a servant. In my country he’s reckoned a mystical healer of the highest degree, more revered than your Abbas of Zeth. He came to Cala because I besought him from the bottom of my heart—not because of any promised stipend. Yes, I intend to reward him well! But I will do it from my own treasure. Is that quite clear? And if Ansel chooses to use his healing powers on a mere sick child in the meantime, that’s his business and none of the Crown’s.”

“Hmph!” said the queen, unmollified.

The women were not friends, as happens often enough with wife and husband’s mother, but thus far on the long journey they had contrived to keep peace between themselves for the sake of the dying man whom both of them loved. Cataldise Blackhorse was of ancient Cathran stock, a small person, deceptively mild in demeanor, rosy-cheeked and stout but with iron-colored eyes and a will to match. She was the one who had begged Olmigon to appoint her brother Vra-Kilian to the post of Royal Alchymist. The king had been unable to resist her plea, to his lasting regret. Until Conrig came of age and became Lord Constable, Kilian had dominated the Privy Council through sheer force of personality. The prince and the wizard had been at loggerheads ever since, with Olmigon frequently caught in the middle.

Princess Maudrayne Northkeep was the favorite niece of Sernin Donorvale, the dauntless First Sealord of Tarn. Tall as a man, with high breasts, curling auburn tresses, and piercing blue eyes, she was so lovely that Conrig would choose none other from among the eligible Tarnian maidens—in spite of her reputation as a short-tempered hellcat with a tongue like a rapier. Their mating had been a clash of titans, wildly ecstatic at first, then tempestuous as the Prince Heritor became obsessed with achieving the Sovereignty of Blenholme and spent less and less time with his demanding wife. Of late, their relations had been not so much stormy as detached and ominously formal. And Maudrayne knew why.

Her apparent inability to conceive a child had frightened and infuriated the princess. Her temper soured and her desperation grew as Conrig’s ardor cooled. He still treated her with respect, but they bedded joylessly now, only in hopes of engendering an heir to the throne. Oddly, as the princess became estranged from her ambitious husband, she drew closer to the morose and suffering king—two tormented souls who had begun to fear that they had failed in their duty through fault of their own.

Maudrayne now carefully uncovered Olmigon’s abdomen and examined the stout truss contrived by the Tarnian healer that now confined the ruptured bowel to its natural place. Then she restored the king’s garments and the covering. “All is in order with the binding. His Grace seems much improved the last few days, no doubt buoyed up by anticipation.”