Sorcerer's Moon (67 page)

Beynor glowered at him. 'Are you questioning the Sovereign's good judgment?' he hissed. 'Or mine?'

'No, master.'

Garon subsided with apparent meekness, asking no more questions, but his aura betrayed his continuing unease as they finished their meal, took their bags to the stable, and finally mounted and left the castle. The squad of Royal Guardsmen watched their departure stolidly, but made no move to follow them across the moat's drawbridge.

The Wold Road outside Direwold Village was thronged with riders and pack-trains heading north toward the mountains. Without a word to Garon, Beynor turned his mount in the opposite direction and spurred it to a canter. Having no choice, Garon followed suit. After less than a quarter of an hour, they had the highway all to themselves. Beynor let his horse slow to a walk and beckoned for Garon to ride beside him.

This part of the Great Wold was a desolate plateau with sparse vegetation, its monotony broken only by the occasional quaking bog or copse of twisted small trees. Overhead, the clouds were low and threatening. Even if Conrig did manage to fend off snow in the mountains with his sigil, it seemed all too likely that the wold country was in for an early taste of winter weather.

'I'm expecting important messages on the wind,' Beynor said. 'They will come from a considerable distance, and I must listen for them intently as well as think over my future plans. Please take my lead rein while I cover my head with my hood and concentrate. If anything unexpected happens, break my trance at once.'

'Yes, master.' The wizard accepted the long strap and urged his horse ahead.

Garon Curtling brooded over the situation as several hours dragged by. He was not a quick-witted man, but his long years as a subordinate of Chancellor Kilian Blackhorse and his two villainous cronies had honed in Garon a keen instinct for self-preservation. He was now almost certain that the Conjure-King had lied about the purpose of this journey. If all was well between him and the Sovereign, Beynor would be ebullient and charged with his usual boldness; instead, he seemed withdrawn and apprehensive. Furthermore, those guardsmen in the castle hall had not acted like protectors. Their attention had remained totally focused upon him and his master rather than being alert to any external threat -almost as though the two of
them
constituted a danger.

Had something gone terribly wrong with the sigil empowerment ritual last night? Had the Beaconfolk refused after all to bond the moonstones to the Sovereign, just as they had earlier refused to re-activate Kilian's five minor stones whose power had been drained by the Potency?

If that's what happened, Garon thought, then Beynor's hopes of manipulating Conrig and gaining a
position of political power were as dead as those useless sigils. And if the Conjure-King was now an outcast from the Sovereign's court, he'd already be thinking of how he might cushion his fall from grace. The money and jewels Beynor carried in his saddlebags would help; but the cushion would be even plumper if it were augmented by Garon's own share of Kilian's treasure . . .

Oh, no you don't! he said to himself.

It wouldn't be done easily, or even safely. But Garon Curtling had long since hatched a plan to save his own skin from the likes of the Conjure-King of Moss. And it was time to put that plan into operation.

He glanced over his shoulder. Head bowed and hooded, Beynor swayed listlessly in his saddle.

Good enough. Garon reached down and unstrapped one of his own bags, rummaging deep within it for something he'd kept safe since disposing of Niavar and Cleaton. Yes -it was there, wrapped in a rag inside his wash-kit, the stopper resealed with wax. Garon extracted it and tucked it into an inner pocket of his heavy tunic, then studied the landscape ahead with his windsight. The road was ascending a broad hill, on top of which was a grove of pines and junipers that would provide shelter from the cold.

A good place to pull off the road and rest, he thought. And brew a nice pot of bearberry tea while he waited for his master to emerge from his trance.

When he was unable to bespeak Master Shaman Kalawnn at Fenguard Castle, Beynor scried the much-changed old royal seat of Moss as meticulously as he could, hoping to ascertain whether his former Salka mentor was in residence. It was hard work, penetrating stone walls at such a distance, but he persisted with a strength born of desperation. The amiable monster who carried the Known Potency within his craw was his last hope.

But Kalawnn was nowhere to be found within Fenguard - nor was the irascible Supreme Warrior, Ugusawnn. The only Eminences in the half-deserted castle were the First Judge and the Conservator of Wisdom. There was no helping it: he'd have to bespeak one of them, abase himself, and try to work his way back into their good graces.

'Here is Beynor of Moss, beseeching one of the Eminent Two to graciously respond.'

Beynor?
The Judge seemed astonished to hear from him.
What do you want with us? Aren't you Ironcrown's vassal now, claiming a kingdom that no longer exists, in a part of the island
that we have liberated and made
our own? And haven't you treacherously turned a Destroyer and two other Great Stones over to our enemy so he can use them against us?

Uh-oh . . .

'I don't know who told you those foul lies, Eminence, but I assure you I've done nothing of the sort. Conrig and his alchymists stole those stones from me -'

The Great Lights say differently. They say you freely gave the sigils to Conrig, thinking to withhold certain knowledge of their functions from the king and maintain a controlling hold over him. The Lights say that it 'pleased' them to grant this human ruler use of the stones! They say they are disappointed in the Salka. Their capricious new game is to pit our two races against each other, with sigils used on both sides. For this atrocious abrogation of our ancient privilege we blame YOU, Beynor of Moss, and we declare you abominable in our eyes forever. And be sure that humankind will not prevail on High Blenholme. Soon this island will belong to the Salka again, while you and all others of your ilk perish. Think about this and despair!

Beynor opened his eyes and began to cough as a gust of smoke blew into his face. 'God of the Depths, Garon - are you trying to suffocate me?' The bay gelding he rode tossed its head and stamped its hooves, backing away from the crackling blaze in front of it.

'Not at all, master. Let me lead your horse to a more comfortable position.' The wizard reached up and took hold of the reins. 'Would you like to dismount? The weather was deteriorating and I thought it best that we pause here in this little wood. I kindled the fire a bit overzealously, wanting it to be burning well by the time you recovered from your trance.'

'Hold this brute still while I climb down,' the sorcerer said, swinging his leg over the bay's broad back and dropping to the ground. 'You can tie him over there with yours.' He groaned. 'By the Ten Hells - I ache all over!'

Garon gave him a cheerful smile. 'I'm going to make us a hot drink. I trust you received the wind-message you were expecting.'

The sorcerer laughed harshly. 'I got the message, all right.' He went off to relieve himself among the junipers.

As the fire settled down, Garon filled the small pot from their waterskin, added a good pinch of dried bearberries, and put it on to boil. He set out the flagon of honey from their mess bag and two tin cups. 'Would you care for an oatcake, master?'

Beynor opened one of his own saddlebags and groped inside. 'Let's have some of these apple-nut turnovers instead.' After some fumbling he extracted two of the small pastries he had saved from breakfast and gave one to Garon, who was crouching as he poured honey into the cups. 'Don't make my drink too sweet.'

The Conjure-King stood staring silently into the flames for some time, fingering the handle of Moss's Sword of State. Finally he said, 'I'm afraid I have some bad news.'

Garon looked up with an expression of concern. 'What is it?'

Beynor lowered himself to the ground and began to eat his pastry, fixing a melancholy gaze on the wizard. 'My friend, I've discovered that King Conrig has betrayed my trust. I have just bespoken a certain person in the Didionite camp at Lake of Shadows, whither we were bound. As you probably know, Crown Prince Valardus declined to join the Cathran contingent of the Southern Wing as they marched out this morning on the way to Tarn. He and his army have vowed to remain at the lake until King Somarus gives them express permission to leave Didion.'

‘I was aware of that, master.' Garon poured tea into the two cups and handed one of them to Beynor. 'Let it cool a bit, but not too much. There's more when you want it.' He
sat down opposite the sorcerer and began to eat his own pastry and blow on his cup.

'My so-called mission,' the Conjure-King went on, 'was to persuade Valardus to reconsider. But now I've learned from my confidant in the Didionite camp that Conrig made a perfidious deal with the Crown Prince. I was to be set upon and killed in ambush by the prince's men because Conrig fears I'll interfere with his wielding of the sigils. In return for thus engineering my demise, Conrig promised not to retaliate against Didion for refusing to defend Tarn from the Salka.'

'Oh, master! That's appalling!' Garon spoke with his mouth full.

Beynor took a deep swallow of his bearberry tea. The drink was aromatic and soothing. 'Giving Ironcrown the sigils was a foolish mistake on my part. I see that now. I believed him when he promised to restore my kingdom. But he lied.'

'I'm - I'm sorry.' Garon flinched as he took a gulp of tea. 'Damn. My guts are starting to gripe. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten so many pickled herring at breakfast.' He finished the cup and poured more with a shaking hand.

Beynor felt perspiration start out on his brow and an uneasy feeling in his own stomach. 'Needless to say, I don't intend to continue on to - to Lake of Shadows. Instead, I - I -'

His eyes widened and the cup fell from his hand. 'No. You didn't.'

Garon's face was bluish-grey and contorted, but he still managed a painful chuckle. ‘I did. And so, evidently, did you!' He convulsed and fell onto his side, narrowly missing the fire.

Beynor clutched his belly with both hands and began to gasp out an incantation in a strangled voice. But he was on the point of collapse. As he slumped to the ground his lips continued to move, although no sounds emerged.

You poisoned the tea,
he bespoke his dying minion.
With the tincture I gave you for Niavar and Cleaton.

Saved some,
Garon replied.
Thought ahead. Like you. For all the good it did us.

Beynor ash Linndal, Conjure-King of Moss, gripped his Sword of State with all of his strength, vowing that not even death would loosen his fingers, and watched the world dissolve into darkness.

There was silence on the uncanny wind, while the pines began to moan and sway, the campfire crackled, and the two horses whinnied with fear and jerked at the reins that fastened them to the spindly juniper bushes. After a long time they broke free and galloped southward across the heath, away from the approaching storm.

* * *

Casya Pretender stood looking out of the tiny window of the trading post at the ground leading to the river. The rain was coming down harder now and by morning the new-fallen snow would be gone.

'It's getting dark, Ising. They must know we're here - especially after we shot that reindeer this afternoon and butchered it. Why haven't they come?'

The old man used a fork to turn the collops of liver and tenderloin broiling on the crusty black gridiron. 'Maybe the Morass Worms suspect what you're here for and don't want to be dragged into another fight.'

'But they
won
the last time, thanks to me! If I hadn't showed them what to do
- how to flank the Salka battalions before emerging from the subtle corridors - the silly things would have charged head-on and been crushed by the sheer numbers of the monsters.'

'Ah, but the worms did win, didn't they? Their own territory is secure. Why should they be concerned with what happens on the west coast of the island?' He drew his hunting
knife, sliced off a bit of liver, and popped it into his mouth. 'Mmm! This is done. Hand over the plates and get the salt and pepper. We'll give the loin cutlets a little more time.'

She did as he said, also bringing the mugs and filling them from the pot of mint-and-spruce-needle tea that steamed on the hob. They sat companionably before the fire on stools, eating the tender liver, watching the venison sizzle, and sipping their drinks.

Ising said, 'Just because the snow that fell last night is melting, it doesn't mean that we can afford to hang about here for very long. A genuine blizzard will come soon and we could be trapped. Two days I'll give 'em. If the worms don't come by then, lass, they never will. We'll have to head back to civilization.'

'No!' she wailed. 'We only got here yesterday.'

He took a taste of the tea and pulled a face. 'Better than hot water, and it'll fend off scurvy, but I'd sell my soul for a beaker of mulled wine. Too bad there's naught to sweeten this stuff.'

'You can leave here if you want,' Casya growled. 'I'm staying.'

'Now listen to me, Your Majesty! You said it yourself: the worms know we're here. If they don't want to talk, we can't make 'em. Two days, Casabarela Mallburn! Then we go.'

She scowled and retreated into a sulk, saying not another word as they ate the rest of the meat and emptied their cups, setting aside the remainder of the beverage for tomorrow. After going outside for a few minutes Ising returned, wrapped himself in blankets, and lay down on one of the bare cots. He started to snore within minutes.

Anger and resentment had made Casya wakeful. She combed and replaited her hair, donned a dry pair of socks and hung the sweaty ones she'd removed in front of the fire, then slipped on her boots and left the cabin to use the
ramshackle convenience. The rain had diminished to a light drizzle and the morass was very still except for the murmur of the river. Most of the snow had disappeared.