Ironcrown Moon (28 page)

Somarus slowly submerged, closing his eyes against the slight sting of minerals in the water, and
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stayed under until his breath was gone.

Then he rose up, inflated his lungs with sweet-smelling forest air, and let himself float. The water was less than three feet deep, but it was marvelous to lie there, warm and supported, gazing up at the leaf-framed sky, thinking about the wonderful things that might—just might

—take place within the next few days.

Fring had warned him not to get his hopes too high. Both of them knew that Beynor of Moss was a vainglorious young blowhard, treacherous as a weasel and even more wily. But if there was any chance at all that the deposed Conjure-King could pull off the assassination of Honigalus and his heirs, Somarus would embrace him as his newfound brother—Beaconfolk curse and all.

For as long as it was expedient to do so.

Through Fring, Beynor had suggested that Somarus hold himself in readiness a day’s ride from Boarsden Castle. But why not move in closer and actually witness the fateful deed himself? Fring had known none of the details, only that the killing was supposed to take place at the Big Bend of the Malle three days from now, late in the afternoon.

He could ride out with a small party from the Lady Lakes camp, using only the simplest form of disguise, reach Castlemont Fortress in a couple of days and enjoy the hospitality of his friend Lord Shogadus, complete the journey easily by traveling the Boar Highroad—

And stand on the south dike of the river, watching the yellow-bellied traitor die!

True, Somarus wouldn’t fulfil his greatest dream. He’d never know the satisfaction of sinking his blade into the heart of the half brother who’d cravenly yielded Didion to Conrig Wincantor because he’d lacked the courage to die in battle. But what the hell! All that mattered was that the throne might come to him at last.

It was another cherished dream of his, one that seemed even more impossible than the first because Honigalus had begotten two sons and a daughter, who stood ahead of him in the line of succession, along with their mother, Bryse Vandragora, who might only inherit under special and unlikely circumstances. But if Beynor actually did manage to wipe out the entire viper’s nest, then he, Somarus, would become King of Didion.

And at that same hour, he vowed, though I must keep it secret in my heart until the time ripens, will I declare war on Conrig Wincantor’s

Sovereignty, and dedicate my life to its destruction…

“Highness?”

He opened his eyes, let his body sink to the bottom of the pool, and knelt upright in the water.

The wizard Tesk stood there in a dusty black robe, nervously licking his too-red lips and blinking shortsighted eyes that always watered in summer. He held out a little corked bottle.

“I brought the tincture myself, Highness, because I’ve just received a message on the wind for you, from High Queen Risalla.”

Yesterday, after first hearing of Beynor’s amazing intention, the prince had sent a carefully worded inquiry to his younger sister in Gala

Palace, hoping that she would find a way to side with him if he rebelled against the Sovereignty.

The two of them had always been devoted to one another, being the offspring of the valiant Queen Siry Boarsden, second wife of the late King Achardus. Both royal parents had died fighting Conrig in the Battle of Holt Mallburn.

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“Tell me quickly what Risalla said!” Somarus demanded.

“Highness, she asked that her response be quoted verbatim: ‘Dearest Brother, my heart and soul will always be with you in every worthy undertaking. But my duty now lies with my husband and children. For the sake of my conscience, tell me nothing of your plans. Only know that I will
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always love you.’”

“Damn!” said Somarus. “She was ever a mild-tempered but stubborn lass, even as a girl. Having pledged her loyalty to Conrig at her marriage, she’ll remain steadfast to him. Duty is everything to her. Do you recall how she came boldly before Conrig on the day he conquered Holt Mallburn, demanding the bodies of the king and queen for proper burial? Conrig could not withstand her. I suppose I

knew how she would reply to my request, even before you gave me her message. But it’s a bitter draft to swallow.”

“I believe that those striving for high goals must be prepared to drain such cups rather often,”

the wizard said sadly. “Shall I apply the delphinium tincture now, Highness? You might wish to return quickly to camp. The sentries have captured a Green Man.”

“What?! Great Starry Bear—is the whole world turning upside down? How did the slippery thing let himself be taken alive by a human?”

“Perhaps I should have said Green

Woman

, Highness. As to your question, I suggest you put it to the creature yourself. She’s asked to speak to you. Or to be more exact, she asked for an audience with King Somarus of Didion.”

“Well, well! Flattering—if a bit premature. Never mind the tincture, man. Fetch me my clothes.”

A light tunic and trews of fine linen had been laid out for him as undergarments, along with woolen stockings and new boots. The garb he intended to wear on the trip to civilization was still in a coffer in his pavilion. He dried his body with a homespun cloth, then dressed without assistance. Somarus was a man far more impressively built than his older brother the king, lean and hard-muscled as a result of years living in the open since his withdrawal from the court. His beard and brows were red and his long hair was a few shades lighter, like the dark gold of cloudberries. His face was weathered and high-colored, with eyes like blue flint, webbed with fine lines at the corners.

He was one-and-thirty years of age.

The camp had been set up in a large forest clearing divided by a brook. The smallest of the three Lady Lakes was partially visible beyond a stand of trees downstream, sparkling in the sun. To the south, the steep rampart of the Sinistral Mountains rose with daunting abruptness from behind wooded hills, the loftiest peaks piercing a cap of white clouds. Northward lay the Elderwold, over five thousand square leagues of desolate heath, boglands, and dense primeval forest, where the ancient and beleaguered race of Green Men had retreated in a final stand against humanity.

The warrior band of Somarus, which was often augmented by men loyal to the outland robber-barons, ventured into the Elderwold only rarely. Most of their raids and skirmishes took place much further to the northwest, where they preyed on caravans of Tarnian and Cathran merchants traveling the Wold Road during the warm months of the year. During winter, they holed up in the castles of the prince’s secret sympathizers. Somarus had only lately brought his core group of men into the Lady Lakes country, after one of Beynor’s dream-visitations promised that a climactic event of surpassing importance would likely take place round about the Summer Solstice. The prince had told no one about Fring’s hint of the proposed assassination, and so the captive Green Woman’s styling of him as “king” both puzzled and intrigued him.

The force in the camp was small but well equipped, and included not quite threescore mounted warriors, eleven landless knights, four barons who had been outlawed and stripped of their fiefs by King Honigalus for crimes against the Crown, and a flock of servants, shield-bearers, and itinerant wizards. All save the knights and nobles were accommodated in twenty tents, set up in two lines and separated by a wide aisle of trampled ground. The larger pavilions of the prince and his officers had been erected across the brook in an area of scattered trees, while the horses were picketed downstream, where abundant grass grew. This early in the
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morning, a multitude of cook fires sent up plumes of smoke as breakfast was prepared.

Preceded by Tesk, Prince Somarus went to the pavilion of Baron Cuva, the highest-ranking of his followers, where a murmuring crowd had gathered in a rough circle. At the wizard’s cry of

“Make way!” the throng parted, and the prince passed through to find Cuva seated on a folding stool, a quizzical expression on his hawkish face. Three glowering wizards and two huge warriors with drawn swords stood in front of the baron, guarding a small figure.

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Cuva rose as Somarus approached, offering his own seat to the prince with a gracious gesture.

“Highness, a most unusual capt—uh—

visitor has asked to see you. I’m not sure I got her name right. Was it Sithalooy Cray?”

“Call me Cray,” the Green Woman said.

The voice was surprisingly low and resonant for one who stood less than five feet tall. Her aspect was completely human, save for the vivid emerald hue of her somewhat overlarge eyes. It was impossible to tell her age. Her unlined face was deeply sun-tanned, and her neatly plaited hair was dull silver, streaked with primrose-yellow. She wore a calf-length moss-green gown having a divided skirt. Her boots were deerskin, and her hooded cloak of mingled shades of grey, brown, and black almost perfectly mimicked tree bark. A bulging purse embroidered with colored thread hung from her belt, along with a little gold-hilted dagger in a skin sheath.

As Somarus sat down on the stool and regarded her with what he hoped was appropriate aloofness, she stepped forward a few paces. One of the warriors guarding her lifted a restraining hand, but she gave a negligent wave and the gigantic man froze like a statue. Cries of consternation came from the gathering.

“Let her be,” Somarus said. “You may come closer, Cray.”

“Are you King Somarus of Didion?”

He said, “Not yet.”

The little woman gave him a casual bob of her head and smiled. “You will be king… after the drownings.”

More astonished exclamations from the crowd.

“Be silent!” the prince said. Then to Cray: “Did you come here to tell me that?”

“No. I was sent by the Source, commanded by him to accompany you on your journey to the wide river.”

“Is that so! Well, I’ve never heard of this Source, so why should I do as he says?”

“Because you want very much to be king.”

“And your Source would forestall me if I declined to obey? Or you would?” The questions were asked without heat.

“We have no wish to do so. Only take me with you and all will go well. I’ll be no trouble. I eat very little and I can ride pillion behind one of your men if you can’t spare me a palfrey. If need be, I’ll protect you from your foes”—she shot a sly glance at the still-motionless warrior—“more adroitly than your pack of hedge-wizards.”

The affronted magickers fixed her with venomous glares.

Somarus threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I believe you could!… What else do you want of me, Mistress Cray?”

“A cup of ale would be lovely,” she said. “I’ve come a long way. There was wildfire in the wold and I had to go around it.”

Somarus rose to his feet, still grinning. “Come and have breakfast. I’d like to talk more with you.

Like most human beings, I’ve never seen one of your race before. I was told you had green skin and pointed ears and leaves instead of hair, and that your women—uh—

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bewitched luckless fellows who lost their way in the Elderwold.”

“We used to do that in days gone by,” she said demurely, “but not so much of late. Tastes change.”

Someone sniggered nervously.

Somarus swept his gaze around the hovering group of nobles, warriors, and wizards. “All of you, get back to your duties! Baron Cuva,

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I’ll ride out this morning for Castlemont with you and a party of ten knights. Light armor and weaponry, surcoats and banners with the

Boarsden blazon for disguise, everyone looking spruce and stalwart. Find a suitable mount for Mistress Cray.” He looked down at her.

“Shall we go to my pavilion?”

“In a moment.” She went to the paralyzed man and spoke a word softly.

The warrior straightened, sheathed his sword, and walked off dazedly after the others. “I hope his friends don’t tease him too badly,” Cray said.

“He’s big enough to take care of himself. Come along now. I’m famished.” She stood before the prince, staring at his right shoulder with a little frown. “Oh, my. You missed one.” She reached up and touched a damp lock of his curling hair. There was a sizzling snap and Somarus smelled a whiff of smoke. “That’s taken care of the creeping little whoreson! Now you look much more like a king.”

==========

The ferry put into eleven lakeside towns and villages before reaching the end of the line at the city of Elktor, and at each stop people got off and on, while crewmen unloaded and loaded cargo at tedious length. The clouds had lowered steadily throughout the day; and by late afternoon, when the knoll crowned by Elktor Castle finally came into view of the passengers, rain was falling and the dramatic mountains above the walled lakeside city were wreathed in eerie swags of mist.

Felmar and Scarth had secured inside seats on the boat early on, so they had a fairly comfortable trip, even though the benches were hard and the cabin atmosphere fuggy with the odor of unwashed humanity. Their quarrel-and-snivel act, performed regularly, kept most of the other passengers at bay, although one garrulous old biddy insisted on sharing memories of her own catastrophic pregnancies with the bogus mother-to-be.

Most of the time the two fugitives slept. So when they finally disembarked at Elktor Quay they were ready to set out for Roaring Gorge as soon as they could purchase suitable clothing and equipment and secure horses. It was only the fifth hour after noon, but their hopes of a speedy getaway were deflated almost at once when a one-eyed dockside loafer informed them that most of the shops and market stalls had shut down early because of inclement weather and a dearth of customers.