Ironcrown Moon (9 page)

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon his lost fortunes, then so be it. He carried a whale-oil lantern as he descended a slippery flight of steps to a corridor that extended well below sea level. The widely spaced jars of luminous marine plankton used by these Salka to illuminate the lower precincts of their refuge gave too meager a light to accommodate human vision. Even the smoky flame of the lantern was inadequate, and Beynor cursed as he threaded his way among numerous stinking black puddles, fed seawater (and noxious little swimmers) by perpetual leaks in the tunnel ceiling.

At length he reached the anteroom outside the presence chamber of the great trolls known as the Eminences. Six gigantic Salka guards holding granite battle hammers stood before double doors faced with slabs of carved amber and wrought gold. The hanging bowls of glowworms were larger here, giving plenty of light, so the young sorcerer discarded his sputtering lantern, strode forward with as much fortitude as he could muster, and spoke in the harsh tongue of the monsters.

“I am Beynor ash Linndal, rightful Conjure-King of Moss and honored guest of your people, come for an audience with the Eminent

Four.”

Slowly, the amphibians inclined their crested heads and studied him with a gaze like banked smoldering coals. They beheld a man tall and slimly built, having an intense narrow face and long pale hair that had gone stringy in the dampness. His eyes, which seemed at first to be black, were actually darkest green, with a glimmer of exceptional talent in their depths. The regal garments Beynor had worn when fleeing his lost kingdom had long since fallen to rags; and since his nonhuman hosts were unfamiliar with clothing, he had fashioned with his own hands a suit of pieced sea-otter fur, along with a voluminous fox cloak and sturdy boots of seal hide. The sole emblem of monarchy he had brought from Moss, the Royal Sword in its heavily bejeweled scabbard, was girded about his loins.

Saying nothing, the guards stepped aside and swung the chamber doors wide open. Beynor entered and the doors clanged shut again. He stood with his hands steepled in the Salka gesture of submission, biding his time until he should be recognized by the Eminences.

The beings who awaited him in the fantastically ornamented undersea cavern lolled on stubby-legged golden platforms, heaped with seaweed, that served them as couches. They were unattended and conversed among themselves in voices like muted thunder, apparently paying no attention to the human newcomer. A low table containing dishes and flasks of outlandish food and drink stood within tentacle reach. Behind the dais rose a huge mosaic made from multicolored bits of amber and gleaming pearl-shell, depicting a legendary Salka hero. His flexible arms brandished twin obsidian axes, his saucer eyes glared fire-red, and his fanged mouth gaped in a silent roar. The image was framed by amber-bead curtains and lit with hanging crystal globes containing lively phosphorescent organisms.

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Like the champion in the mosaic, each Eminence wore around his thick neck a softly glowing greenish-blue carving suspended from a golden chain: moonstone sigils of the minor kind that drew magical power from the Beacon-folk at the cost of pain to the wearer.

The Eminences were not royalty, but rather ruling elders chosen by their people for strength of character and proficiency in their separate fields of endeavor. Three of them—the First Judge, the Supreme Warrior, and the Conservator of Wisdom—Beynor had never seen before. As a mere human sorcerer, even one of royal blood who had come bearing a marvelous gift to ensure his welcome, he had been beneath their notice during his enforced stay in the Citadel of the Dawntide Isles. The only one of the Four familiar to Beynor was Master Shaman Kalawnn, pre-eminent adept of his race, who had been an intimate friend of the late Conjure-King Linndal. Unaware that Beynor had murdered his father, Master Kalawnn had agreed to give the deposed young ruler sanctuary after the Great Lights cursed him and stripped him of all but one of the sigils he had used to secure the throne of Moss.

That single remaining magical moonstone of his, dull and lifeless as it had been since it was first fashioned over a thousand years earlier, rested now on a spindly gold tripod to the right of the dais. Its presence was presumably a tribute to the human who had finally returned it to its original owners. The sigil’s name was Unknown Potency, and it was the most celebrated thing of its kind ever made, priceless at the same time that it was deemed supremely dangerous.

For long centuries following the damnation of the stone’s Salka creator, the precise manner of the Potency’s activation and operation had been forgotten by other members of the amphibian race. The person who made it— supposedly to be used as the ultimate weapon against the conquering hordes of the Emperor Bazekoy, although the monsters were not certain of this—had in the end failed to empower it.

Never brought to life, dreaded more than cherished, the Unknown Potency had become an enigmatic symbol of extinct Salka glory. Over the centuries, learned thaumaturgists among the monsters believed that the sigil might hold the key to unimaginably great magic surpassing that of the Beaconfolk But none had been brave enough to test it, for fear of the Great Lights’

capricious wrath.

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About a hundred years earlier, through subterfuge, the Unknown Potency and six other notable sigils had passed from the Dawntide Salka into the hands of an extraordinary human wizard named Rothbannon, who used some of the stones to establish himself as the first Conjure-King of Moss. Although Rothbannon did eventually learn the spells that would activate the Unknown Potency, he and his descendants were disinclined to make use of the dubious sigil—as had been Beynor himself, even when the security of his throne was at stake and the fickle Beaconfolk turned against him. As the Great Lights repudiated and cursed the young king, they unaccountably left in his possession the “dead” Unknown Potency, at the same time forbidding him to make use of it, or any other sigil, on pain of instant annihilation. But the Lights had not stopped Beynor from handing over the Unknown to the Salka.

Nor had they prevented him from engaging in studies concerning the nature of the cryptic stone while he lived in the Dawntide Citadel under Kalawnn’s protection…

“We give you leave to approach us, Beynor,” the Master Shaman now said, “and to speak to me and my august colleagues about your researches.”

He came forward, and without preamble pointed to the Unknown Potency on its golden tripod.

“Eminences, I’ve discovered what this thing does.”

The leaders uttered undignified whoops of astonishment. The Supreme Warrior, who was the largest and most physically imposing of the

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Four, surged up from his couch and slithered across the dais with astonishing speed. He plucked from its resting place the small object resembling a hard translucent ribbon twisted into the form of a figure eight, and held the thing high while bellowing into Beynor’s impassive face.

“

You have discovered the operation of the Unknown Potency? The secret that eluded the most learned of our shamans for over eleven hundred years? How dare you say such a thing? You’re lying!”

“I studied your own archival tablets, Eminence—documents that have lain neglected in the bowels of this citadel since the defeated remnant of the Salka host took refuge in these forsaken isles. The work was very difficult, even though I am fairly fluent in your language. But I persevered. I succeeded. And now I propose to share my hard-won knowledge of the Potency with you.” Beynor paused.

“As is only just, I ask something in return for my labors.”

“Now we come to the heart of the matter!” exclaimed the Supreme Warrior, with a vicious clash of teeth. “He intends to trick us in some fashion, as the wretch Rothbannon did!

Kalawnn—explain how this miscreant was able to pry into our sacred archives. How long have you been aware of this alleged discovery?”

“Calm yourself, Ugusawnn,” the Master Shaman replied equably. “I myself gave Beynor leave to investigate the Unknown Potency’s history not long after his arrival. Why not, since our own scholars seemed unaccountably tepid in their reaction to the precious sigil’s return? As to Beynor’s discovery, he told me of it just hours ago, saying he had finally marshaled sufficient evidence to support his hypothesis. I commanded him to wait on us Four without delay and explain everything.”

“And now the insolent groundling thinks he can barter his so-called knowledge!” roared the Warrior. “I say he should be tortured until the truth is wrung out of him!”

“The journeyman is deserving of his wage,” said Beynor, who seemed unfazed by the threat.

“Forgive my saying so, Eminences, but your shamans— with the shining exception of Master Kalawnn—are a timid and lazy lot, fearful of arcane matters outside the range of their limited experience. They flatly refused to help with my researches, so I undertook them alone, working for four years under conditions inimical to human good health. Eventually I uncovered the Potency’s secrets. It may no longer be called Unknown, Eminences! I know its true nature. And while the Great Lights have forbidden me to empower it—or any other sigil—they have not constrained you Salka.

I’m willing to show you how to bring the stone to life. What’s more, with my help, this one small moonstone can restore to you your lost homeland on High Blenholme island, avenging your defeat by Emperor Bazekoy.”

“Astounding, if true,” said the First Judge. He was a rotund personage who snacked on tidbits from the refreshment table as he observed

Beynor through shrewd, half-closed eyes.

The ancient Conservator of Wisdom whispered, “If there is the least chance that the groundling does speak the truth, we must weigh his proposition.”

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“I am truthful,” Beynor stated. “And I’ll reveal everything I know if you pledge to help me attain my own heart’s goal.”

The Supreme Warrior gingerly replaced the precious piece of moonstone on its golden stand and loomed over the young man. Two boneless arms as thick as beech trunks, each having four digits armed with daggerlike talons, reached out in menace as the Salka general spoke with
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ominous gentleness. “You’ll tell what you know without making demands, carrion-worm, or I will first disjoint your limbs piecemeal, then slowly slice open your belly and consume your throbbing entrails while you watch with dying eyes.”

“That will do, Ugusawnn,” said the Conservator of Wisdom. He was an individual of wizened stature, plainly infirm and weighted with years, but his red eyes burned with an authority that quelled the Supreme Warrior like an upstart child. “Please resume your place. I will question the former Conjure-King of Moss myself.”

“Huh!” said Ugusawnn. But he crawled obediently back to his slimy kelp couch as the Conservator beckoned for Beynor to come closer.

“It pains me to speak loudly, groundling. But listening to lies pains me even more. Do you swear by your human God to tell me the truth about the Unknown Potency, on peril of damnation to the Hell of Ice?”

“I do indeed, Eminence.”

But not all of the truth… no more than I told it to Kilian!

“Then say first what favors you seek in return for your discovery.”

Beynor took a breath. “My principal desire is vengeance upon my evil sister Ullanoth and her accomplice Conrig Wincantor, the

Sovereign of Blenholme. They conspired to humiliate me and steal my throne, and are ultimately responsible for my losing the friendship of the Beaconfolk. To achieve the ruin of these two persons I would renounce all hope of ever ruling Moss— or any part of High Blenholme Island. Instead, I offer to restore your original homeland to you, after which I intend to pursue my own destiny on the

Southern Continent.”

“He offers

Blenholme to us!” the Supreme Warrior scoffed. “As though he ruled it rather than Conrig’s Sovereignty.”

“The Unknown Potency can enable your army to destroy both the Sovereign and my sister,”

Beynor said. “With my help.”

“Tell us how,” the First Judge demanded, picking his glassy teeth with one talon and examining the result with a frown.

“Before I do that, I require tangible proof of your goodwill. It’s only just, Eminences—and my request isn’t difficult of fulfillment. As a first step in subverting Conrig’s Sovereignty, I believe we must undermine his control in the region where the island is most vulnerable: the vassal kingdom of Didion. Did-ion is a keystone state whose lands adjoin those of the other three realms. It is susceptible to a Salka sea invasion from the east, the west, and most especially from the north, through the Green Morass. Its king, Honigalus, is a weakling, but he is unswervingly loyal to Conrig.”

“What has this to do with us?” the Conservator hissed impatiently.

“As the first step in achieving my revenge, and your reconquest of Blenholme, I ask you to help me assassinate Honigalus, his three children, and his wife, who stand in line to the throne. If this is done, the king’s younger brother will inherit—a hothead prince named Somarus who is violently opposed to the Sovereignty. I’m very well acquainted with Somarus and his ambitions. He’s highly susceptible to my coercion. And if this princely creature of mine were perceived by neighboring Tarn to be a legitimate heir to the throne and not a fratricidal usurper—as would be assured if

Salka were clearly seen to be responsible for his brother’s death—then Sernin Donorvale and the Sealords of Tarn would have no scruples about allying with Didion in an attempt to throw off Conrig’s hated dominion. The