Sorcerer's Moon (62 page)

'There was a chart of Terminal Bay on the wall of the library at Dennech Citadel,' he recalled. ‘I seem to remember that this side of the bay had only a few tiny settlements. The pirates have their strongholds and port villages further east and on the south shore.'

'Someone will surely see a fire and come to investigate,' she said quietly. Tf only Mother can make the drill work.'

'She seems a changed women, not at all the drooping, despondent soul who embarked weeping from Karum.'

'Adversity can bring out unexpected virtues in some people, Orry.'

‘I hope that's true,' he said. 'God, how I hope it's true!'

They went back to the countess after a time and found her sawing away feverishly with the bow. 'It smokes,' she said through clenched teeth, 'but the tinder refuses to catch fire. I blame the damp air.'

'Perhaps if I blew on it gently,' Orrion suggested. He dropped flat on the sand and inched close to the plank with the seeds and shavings. 'Let me steady this piece of wood with my hand while I breathe on the charred bits.'

Nyla said, 'Can I do anything to help?'

'Pray,' said her mother tersely, and began to work the bow-drill again.

A minuscule wisp of smoke rose from the hole and Orrion
found himself following the countess's admonition and praying for a flame. Their lives depended on making fire. Without it they would die of thirst and exposure on this desolate rock. A flame. Please, God and Saint Zeth, a flame -

'Booger me blind!' The countess gave a start of fear and dropped the bow-drill.

Nyla uttered a soft scream. 'Your finger, Orry! Oh, no! It's burning!'

That was not quite the truth. His left hand steadying the board with the drill-hole had a small yellow flame emanating from the tip of its index finger. Wide-eyed, he lifted the hand. The flame danced, not quite touching the fingernail. There was no sensation of his flesh burning.

'Magic!' Countess Orvada gasped, staring at him as though he'd sprouted a second head. 'You possess uncanny talent, Orrion Wincantor, just as your royal father was alleged to do at his trial long years ago. He was acquitted of the charge, but some believe -'

'Oh, who cares?' Nyla shrieked. 'Orry, light the tinder!'

He touched the little pile of wood-curls and fluffy seeds. It flared up instantly. Nyla fed it with twigs and sticks.

'Small stuff, small stuff first!' the countess said, her mind snapping back to the only matter of importance. 'That's right, let it catch well. And now something a bit larger

Bemused, Orrion watched the finger-flame snuff itself as he bade it. He knew the rumors about his father. And not only him! Corodon was suspiciously adept at conjuring tricks. And of course Bramlow's uncanny abilities were obvious.

'But if I possess talent,' he said, 'why didn't the Brothers of Zeth find out - and bar me from Cathra's throne?'

The countess looked up at him, her fear and revulsion giving way to another emotion. 'It would seem that your talent is undetectable but nonetheless real. And since it may save our lives, I bless you for possessing it, dear boy.'

‘I knew nothing,' he whispered. 'I never suspected a thing.' But then he recalled what the demons had said as he begged a miracle on top of the mountain.

AT LEAST
YOU ARE WORTHY, AS ARE THE OTHER TWO WHO COWER NEXT
TO OUR CRAG.

Nyla pulled up a sizable broken spar and positioned it so it might be pushed into the flames as it was consumed. Then she piled more sticks on and stepped back to revel in the warmth.

'Oh, wonderful! Now we can dry ourselves. Orry, take off your boots and stockings. I'm going to strip to my smalls and hang my gown and petticoat on a tripod of sticks.'

'Daughter!' the countess huffed.

'Orrion and I are to be married,' Nyla said with a toss of her head. 'My things will dry much faster this way.’

‘Oh, very well.'

'And we must keep Orry's talent secret, Mother, so the Zeth Brethren don't claim him. What difference does it make if my darling can do magic? He can never be king.'

Orvada had drawn away as the fire grew. Now she gave a little wry smile and extended her feet toward the blaze. ‘I will say nothing of your talent, Sir Orrion, unless you grant me permission. A loyal mother-in-law elect can do no less.'

Orrion scrambled over to her and kissed her cheek. 'Thank you. Now let's concentrate on drying off, then make this fire as large as we can.'

* * *

Hours passed. They all fell asleep, waking as the fire sank to embers and cool air chilled them. After donning their dry things they set out to gather more driftwood.

It was then that Orrion saw the light on the water. It was yellow, like an oil lantern, and bobbed gently as it came closer. The fat crescent moon was about to set behind the Cuva Hills far inland, but there were millions of stars in the clear sky
and it was possible for him to make out a small dinghy being rowed toward their island. The light hung from a stanchion at the bow.

'Hello!' he called. 'Hello, the boat! We're three shipwrecked souls begging your help.'

'We be coming,' a pair of high-pitched voices said in unison.

Orrion had dropped his burden of wood. The two women came running. ‘I think they're children,' he said quietly. 'What in the world are they doing out on the water at this late hour?'

'Fishing, I don't doubt,' the countess said. 'Poor folk aren't as sentimental about younglings as you royals. Our peasants at Craketop Manor put the little ones to work gleaning and caring for fowl and gathering potherbs and such when they were five years old.'

'They come of pirate stock,' Orrion warned. 'We must be cautious dealing with them. If they turn us over to Rork Karum, he'd discover our identity by despicable means and hold us for ransom. Ladies, I beg you to say nothing. Let me cope with these young rescuers.'

Countess Orvada grumbled under her breath, but fell silent as the dinghy scraped the sand. It had a mast, but the sail was furled in the calm air. Orrion waded out, took the painter, and hauled the craft up as the two small rowers shipped their oars and leapt out to help. They were a boy and a girl, large-eyed with astonishment, scrawny and no more than ten or eleven years old. They had lank flaxen hair and wore tunics of woven wool with cord belts, hooded capelets of tattered thin leather, and stout open sandals with no stockings.

'Starry Dragon!' the boy exclaimed, eying the scruffy adults warily. 'Did ye come off t'ship got blasted by lightning, then?'

That's right,' Orrion said with a friendly smile. 'What are your names?'

"Tumble thing that was,' the girl said with gruesome relish. She seemed the older of the pair. 'A course, it were only a Tarnian ship.' She gave a nervous laugh. 'We'uns ain't too friendly with Tarn. I's Ree and he be m'little brother Klagus.'

Orrion hunkered down, sensing their apprehension. 'We're not Tarnians. We're people of Didion, just like you. We're cold and hungry and we want to go home to our people in Dennech Town. Do you know where that is?'

The boy shrugged. 'Somewhere inland. We'uns don't know inland.'

'Were you out fishing by yourselves?'

'We gotta,' the girl said. 'There's only us and Ma and t'brat at home.' She screwed up her face. 'And no food t'spare, either, less'n ye wanna buy summa our fish at fair price. They's grimmels. Good and juicy if ye grill 'em.'

'What's a fair price to feed us, and your mother to cook up the fish?' Orrion inquired briskly.

The fishergirl scowled, pursed her lips, and finally said. 'A silver penny. No less!'

'Done,' said Orrion, and held out his left hand.

She put her cold, grimy one into it, noticing his missing limb for the first time. 'It's good luck, meeting a one-handed or one-legged man. Wotcha gonna do t'morrow? We'uns can't keep ye in t'hut. No room.'

'Can your boat sail to Karum Port? We want to go there as soon as possible. I'll pay you three pennies and buy you both a nice meal at the tavern there. From Karum, we can find our way home to Dennech.'

Ree looked at her brother. 'Wotya think, Klagus?'

'Yar,' he said with a laconic nod to the adults. 'Sea wind'll rise agin after midnight. We'uns can take our catch in early t'market. Ye, too, if ye don' mind sittin' nigh baskets o' fish.'

'We don't mind at all,' Nyla said sweetly. 'We just love fish. Let me help you to board. Mother.'

'Say nothing,' Orrion reminded the women in a tense whisper.

When they were seated in the bow and the girl took her place on the mid-thwart, Orrion and the boy pushed the dinghy off and hopped in. In a minute both children were rowing strongly. Orrion had more sense than to offer his help. The fishers were proud of their skill, smirking sidelong at each other at the thought of the windfall of real money that was soon to be theirs.

He thought: Perhaps the children's mother would part with some old clothing if I offered another penny. And when we leave for Karum, I'll hide a gold half-mark coin in the hut where someone will be sure to find it later.

But it would never do for the fishers to find out that his wallet was full of gold. Young as they were, Klagus and Ree would sell the three of them to the pirates in the blink of an eye . . .

Nyla and the countess were silent, heads together. After a time, they seemed to have fallen asleep.

Orrion spoke low to the children. 'Were other folk from the wrecked ship found?'

'None we'uns know,' the boy said. 'Not many out fishin' t'night. This be a lonesome part o' t'bay. All shoalwater and reefs. All we'uns seen was Old Tig's boat early on . . . and later mobs o' great big seals cavortin' in t'moonlight. A sight, that was! They was jumpin' clear outa t' water - like it was one uvum's birthday or some such happy thing.'

'Seals?' Orrion felt a tingle of trepidation. 'How large were they?

The girl said, 'Monstrous! Biggest we'uns ever saw. Red eyes they had, shinin' in t' dark like hot coals. So scary wee Klagus there like t'browned his britchclout, but they didn't do us no harm. Too busy with dancin' or whatever.'

'How - how very curious.' Orrion could not keep the tremor out of his voice.

The mystery of Gannet's demise was solved. And he, Orrion Wincantor, was perhaps the only one who knew the place where the Salka horde intended to invade High Blenholme.

What am I going to do? he asked himself. Do I dare wait until morning to carry this terrible news to the authorities at Dennech Citadel? And if I do inform Duchess Margaleva and her people, will she believe me and take action before it's too late?

Numb with horror, he sat in the stern of the dingy. The two wiry children plied their oars, sending the dinghy racing toward the shore. The crescent moon was down, but peeping over the northern highlands were a few faint beams of green and crimson radiance, like ghostly beacons among the stars.

The Lights.

The demons.

YOU ARE WORTHY. . .

I have talent, he thought. Is it possible for me to speak on the wind, as the other adepts do? I've never tried. I never imagined such a thing was possible. But I must attempt it now. God help me, I must!

Who to call? Bramlow was certainly talented and to be trusted. But perhaps he'd have better luck bespeaking the person who had been closest to him from the day of their birth eighteen years ago: his twin brother, Corodon -

The two children giggled shrilly. The girl said, 'Man, ye look like ye swallered a spoilt clam! Feelin' poorly, then?'

'A little,' he said. 'I'm going to try to sleep. Wake me when we reach the shore.'

He closed his eyes and set out to find the wind.

* * *

The bell of Castle Direwold struck the hour before midnight and Conrig muttered an imprecation. 'Where is that damned
sorcerer? I told him to come at ten! Coro, put more wood on the fire. Bram, see if you can scry the rascal out.'

Baron Jordus's little solar was drafty, and two huge smelly wolfhounds who had been ejected earlier by the servants had crept back in somehow and now lay sleeping before the hearth, making weird noises and twitching as they dreamed.

The High King paced restlessly about the shadowy room while the Prince Heritor and Vra-Bramlow sat at a table lit by tapers in two tarnished candelabra. A matching silver tray held an ornate ewer full of inferior ale, some dented cups, and a plate of dusty sweetmeats. No one had touched the refreshments. Corodon, armed with broadsword and dagger, tossed several billets of wood on the dwindling flames and stirred the coals with a poker. The novice, who had been stroking the golden reliquary that held Bazekoy's blue pearl, left off rehearsing its incantation and covered his head with his hood to attempt the windsearch.

Conrig had ordered his sons to attend him during the ceremony that would activate the sigils, but rejected urgent requests from the senior Zeth Brethren and the Tarnian Grand Shaman that they also be present. The king wanted no one save those of his own blood to know the formula that brought the Great Stones to life.

Bramlow pushed back his hood. 'Beynor comes, sire. As you commanded, he is alone.'

'Both of you take stools beside the hearth,' the king said. 'Be vigilant for treachery! Bram, you are my prime defender.'

‘I understand sire.' The novice took the reliquary and tucked it into the sleeve of his robe, knowing that Beynor would surely be aware of its presence. But would the pearl's benign power be sufficient to shield the Sovereign from Beaconfolk perfidy? None among the Brethren or the Tarnian
shamans knew whether Bazekoy's talismans had ever been thus tested.

I must not fail my father, Bram thought. But another notion gnawed at him: Had he already failed Conrig by acquiescing in his intention to use the terrible sigils?

'Good evening, my liege.' Beynor stepped into the solar and closed the door behind him.

Conrig nodded. 'Your Majesty of Moss.'

The sorcerer had put aside the spell of disguise as well as the garments of Zeth's Order and now wore a simple robe of dark green, cinched with the ornate belt of Moss's Sword of State. 'As you can see, I have left the royal blade itself and its scabbard behind in my room. Your valiant sons need have no fear for your safety.'