Conqueror’s Moon (32 page)

“Faster!” shouted Somarus, and the coachman obeyed, with the result that the light vehicle began to bounce and sway so violently on the irregular roadbed that it was in peril of toppling over.

“No!” Honigalus bellowed. “Driver, pull up! We’ve left the beasts behind. Stop, I say!”

All of the coach teams finally halted, plunging and squealing while drivers hauled on the reins and footmen hung desperately from bridles and traces. Curiously, the once impressive matched black horses seemed to have shapeshifted into rawboned ponies of many different colors. Their formerly sleek coats were rough and shaggy, as would be natural for beasts native to the subarctic.

In the rear, the members of the parade who had been left behind were struggling to catch up. So were the carts carrying the wizards of the Glaumerie Guild and their henchmen. Almost all of the townsfolk had disappeared, except for one woman with arms raised high, standing a few ells in front of the king’s coach and keening at the top of her lungs.

“It’s that squalling crone again,” Somarus exclaimed. “What’s she saying this time?”

“His Majesty is alighting,” Honigalus observed. “Perhaps we’d better get our own arses outside, Brother.”

The princes hastened to join their father, swords drawn.

“Now what?” roared the King of Didion. “Get out of the way, old woman!”

“Woe! Oh, woe!” she screamed. “Woe to those who seek favors of Moss’s cursed young king! Listen to the words of Witch Walanoth, the only friend to poor murdered King Linndal. Killed by his own son! Doom and damnation and the curse of the Lights fall upon any nation that would ally with a patricide and regicide!”

“Sire, beware!” Somarus brandished his blade and strode to his father’s side. “Aroint thee, beldam!” he shouted at the hag. “Begone, or I’ll run you through!”

He lunged at her, but the blade passed scathelessly through her body as though it were smoke. She gave one last cry of “Woe!” and disappeared. Almost immediately, an enormous flock of gulls came diving from the sky, giving piercing shrieks. They wheeled around the king and his sons like snowflakes in a blizzard, showering the stupefied men with their excrement. A moment later the birds were gone, winging out over the estuary.

Stunned into speechlessness, King Achardus lifted one smirched silvery gauntlet and stared at the reeking mess. His regal cloak was sodden with droppings, and white ordure dripped from the rim of his raised visor into his brows and beard.

“Sire, are you harmed?” Honigalus ventured.

“I’m as well as a man can be, bathed in birdshite.” The voice of the giant monarch was quiet, almost thoughtful. “Did you hear what the witch said, lads?”

They nodded.

“Conjure-King Linndal died falling down stairs late at night,” Somarus said. “Easy enough to contrive.”

“What are we to do, sire?” Honigalus asked.

“I’ll tell Queen Siry to sit with the princesses in your coach. They can stay right here for the time being, guarded by our own warriors. You two get in the lead coach with me, and we’ll go up to the castle and see what young Beynor has to say for himself. It had better be good.”

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He knew what she’d done. He and Lady Zimroth had watched the whole fiasco from the throne room’s antechamber through windsight, powerless to prevent the indignities wreaked upon the hapless Didionites. What Beynor had not expected was for Ullanoth to appear suddenly before him, still in her guise of a hunchbacked crone.

Laughing.

“You misbegotten slut! I’ll kill you myself.” He drew his regal sword, advancing upon her bedraggled figure, knowing she could not harm him because of the sigil named Subtle Armor that he wore beneath his robes.

“Try!” she urged him, grinning. Her Sending was protected by Interpenetrator.

He swung the heavy blade with all his strength, taking her through the neck, but her head remained on her shoulders and the sword encountered no more resistance than slicing thin air. The sound of her laughter incensed him and he gave a great shriek of rage, flinging down the sword and going at her with his bare hands.

He ran straight through her and whirled about in consternation.

“If you need my help with your guests, Brother, I’ll be waiting in my tower.” Then she recited, “BI DO FYSINEK,” and vanished.

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Beynor was profuse in his apologies and persuasive in his explanations to Achardus and his sons. (He also used the minor sigil Shapeshifter to enhance his reedy physique and give a more mature cast to his features.) The so-called Walanoth, he explained with grave forbearance, had been none other than his estranged sister Princess Ullanoth in disguise. The pathetic creature had inherited the mental instability of their late father, and Linndal’s untimely death had apparently deprived her of the last vestiges of sanity. Ullanoth possessed magical powers—but none so great as his own!—and her diabolical affront to the Didionite royal family proved that she was now trapped in the toils of madness.

“Although it breaks my heart to admit it,” the young Conjure-King said, “it is my solemn judgment that Princess Ullanoth is so dangerous that I have no recourse but to condemn her to death.”

“Well, I don’t know about that—” Achardus started to protest.

But Beynor held up his hand. “I have spoken. As she used magic to commit lese-majeste, so shall she perish by my own magical might! My dear elder brother Achardus: would you and your sons care to see the melancholy sentence carried out?”

Fascinated, the three Didionite royals said that they would, if they could clean up a bit first.

A short time later, Beynor led his guests, Lady Zimroth, and most of the high nobility of Moss to Fenguard Castle’s forecourt and pointed to the top floor of the South Tower. Its interior was masked by the magic of his sister’s Fortress. The king lifted his right hand, where Weathermaker gleamed on his index finger. Then he cried out in a loud voice for Ullanoth to surrender herself to his justice.

When nothing happened, he clenched his teeth, drew in his breath, and commanded the sigil. The moonstone ring flared with green fire.

For a moment, the setting sun continued to paint the tower with rosy light. The sky was completely clear now, and the triple rainbow had long since disappeared.

Suddenly a small cloud sprang into being overhead, black as ink and roiling like a whirlpool. It swelled, hanging above the castle like some unholy canopy. Purple flashes of silent lightning flickered within its surging heart. Achardus and the two princes felt static crackle in their hair and tingle along their exposed skin. Beynor’s face was livid, contorted with repressed agony, and the moonstone sigil on the finger he pointed at the South Tower glowed like an incandescent emerald.

“Now,” the boy-king whispered.

The earth shook with a stunning concussion as a blazing thunderbolt struck the upper floor of the tower. Achardus, Honigalus, Somarus, and the other spectators felt their legs buckle, and they were hurled to the ground. Only Beynor remained solidly upright, the terrible radiance of his magical tool now paled almost to imperceptibility. Debris flew from the decapitated tower. Its upper works had been completely demolished and there was a swirling mass of smoke, but no fire. The eerie black cloud began to shrink and in a few minutes it was gone.

“May the Moon Mother show mercy to my poor sister’s soul,” Beynor said, his head bowed.

The three shaken royals climbed to their feet and dusted themselves off. The noble Mosslanders followed suit, then burst into scattered applause. Someone shouted, “Long live Conjure-King Beynor!”

“So that’s the end of her?” Achardus managed to say.

Beynor nodded. “Her body has been reduced to ashes. My slaves will cover over the roofless tower before morning, and I’ll rebuild it in the spring. Shall we ride out now and conduct your ladies and children to the castle? Dinner will be served anon. You may wish to reassure the other members of your entourage that nothing else will mar their visit to the land of Moss.”

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A faint shadow passed unnoticed along the torchlit guardhouse wall as Rothbannon’s Marvel struck the sixth hour after noon. It was full dark now but still unseasonably warm, and the windows of the great hall were unshuttered and bright. Small tubs of burning oil lined the battlements and parapets of the castle and outlined the gatehouse, making a brilliant show. The main entrance to the keep was conveniently open to accommodate the many retainers rushing to and fro between the serving kitchen and buttery on the castle’s ground level and the outbuildings where the visiting warriors and retainers were accommodated.

Witch Walanoth heard music and laughter, and she smiled. The feast of welcome was in full swing inside the great hall. Again she took the sigil named Beastbidder from her belt, using it this time to summon millions of biting midges that lived in the Little Fen across the Darkling River. It would take the insects a while to arrive, but she’d wait patiently, then guide them to their portion of the feast.

Poor Beynor…

“No, Mother, I won’t kill him,” she whispered. “I’ll only make him wish he were dead. Then one last blow during his coronation tomorrow, and I’ll stow away on the Didionite flagship and go south to wait for Conrig and his army.”

One last blow.

Shall I use rats? she asked herself. Or would swamp vipers be more appropriate?

nineteen

Red Ansel Knew well enough that Princess Maudrayne’s sudden indisposition was no true illness. The fact that he was forbidden by the Cathran royal family to attend and treat her was in itself suspicious. Instead, King Olmigon had thanked the shaman for his medical services, given him a large sum of gold (“for the relief of your suffering people”), and commanded him to be on board a ship of the grain convoy that was finally setting sail for Tarn on the morrow.

Deeply troubled, Ansel retired to his room in Cala Palace and windspoke his Source.

“Once again I am at a loss,” he confessed, “unable to decide the best course of action, and so I beseech your advice.”

Tell me your problem. Is it the wild-talented boy again?

“No, it’s Princess Maudrayne. She’s desperately unhappy and has discovered that her husband Conrig betrayed her with another woman—Ullanoth of Moss. She believes that Conrig intends to set her aside and marry the Conjure-Princess, and her pride is so wounded that she is determined to divorce him without attempting a reconciliation. Maude besought my help to escape from Cathra, but before I could counsel her she fell mysteriously ill and was sequestered from all visitors. I eluded Maude’s guardians, came into her rooms, and found her looking healthy, but mentally stuporous. She would not respond to my questions. I believe Conrig’s brother, who is an alchymist, gave her a potion to dull her wits. It was also impossible to bespeak her in her dreams, because she was transported by unnatural euphoria, unable to connect thoughts rationally. I think her husband wishes to ensure that she doesn’t betray his plans to invade Didion—as well as preventing her from running away to Tarn. What I ask of you, dear Source, is whether I should help Maude escape.”

Do you think her life is in danger?

“I’m certain it is not. She’s finally pregnant with Conrig’s child after years of barrenness. If Maude would only tell the prince of the babe, I think he would forget about Ullanoth in a trice. But she’s too stubborn to follow such a course, wanting to be loved for herself—not for the wee creature she carries in her womb.”

Very understandable! Nevertheless, she is no common woman, and her duty must supersede her vanity. It would be evil for her to betray Conrig’s military plans out of sheer pique. And even more wicked for her to leave her straying royal husband, taking the fruit of his loins with her. She has been wronged, but she must not attempt such drastic redress—nor may you, in good conscience, assist her.

“So I am to abandon my poor young friend to her state of dazed oblivion?”

Don’t think to pluck at my heartstrings, Ansel Pikan! Maudrayne’s captors won’t keep her drugged forever. When they leave off feeding her the potion, you must be there to talk sense into her. Prevent her from doing something so outrageously foolish that there’ll be no turning back from it.

“Yes, you’re right. I bow to your wisdom, Source. I’ll pretend to obey Conrig’s order to leave Cathra on one of the grain ships. It’ll be easy enough to slip back ashore and find some place to hole up until I’m needed. Meanwhile, I’ll quietly search Cala Palace for Darasilo’s moonstones. Conrig never found them, and it’s certain Kilian didn’t take them with him—”

No! You must never think of meddling with those fatal sigils, not even for motives of safe keeping. They are forbidden to your touch. And the book that you took from the boy Deveron must remain unopened until you can hand it over to me.

“Ah!… How are you able to read my mind?”

No one can descry the thoughts of humankind save the gods, and I doubt whether even they would have the stomach for such a boring task, day after day. What I do read is the warp and woof of destiny’s threads as it weaves the future fate of High Blenholme Island. And I tell you that you may not interfere in any matter touching upon Conrig Wincantor and his family.

“So I’m to do nothing at all for Maudrayne?”

The day will soon come when you’ll be called upon to aid both the princess and your native land of Tarn. Until then, bide your time peacefully, Red Ansel—and pray that the Lights do the same.

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Early on the morning that he and his Heart Companions were to depart for the north country, Conrig went to say farewell to his parents. As the lord-in-waiting opened the royal bedchamber door to admit him, another nobleman stormed out, so consumed with fury that he neglected even to acknowledge the Prince Heritor’s presence.

Conrig shut the door behind him with a quizzical smile. “Lord Admiral Dundry seems to be in a fine state, sire.”

Olmigon was in bed, propped up on pillows, scrawling with pained slowness on vellum, while Queen Cataldise and Odon Falmire, the Lord Chancellor, hovered over him.

“I’ve sacked the bastard,” the king said with wry satisfaction, as he continued to write. “I gave him the chance to step down quietly from his post and retire with the gratitude of the Crown and a nice addition to his family estates. And what did he do? He had the ballocks to present me with a petition from twenty of our fighting captains, urging me to keep him on!”