Sorcerer's Moon (68 page)

Casya stood still, eyes straining to see into the dark forest.

Where are you? she called without speaking. Why won't you come and talk to me? Don't you know that this island belongs to all of us? I'll never be Queen of Didion if the Salka overrun my country. I won't be able to fulfil the promise I made to you! We have to help each other. Oh, please come!

Nothing happened. She waited only a short time until the cold and damp drove her back inside the shelter of the trading post. Taking one last look out the window before going to bed, she gave a gasp as she caught a brief glimpse of some thing sparkling high among the trees across the water. But it was only there for an instant before it winked out.

The sky's clearing, she realized. It was probably only a low-hanging star. She turned away and lay down fully clothed. As she pulled the blankets around her ears, one last question posed itself:

But are stars green?

She was too tired to bother thinking of an answer. After a time Casabarela Mallburn slept, and a spectacular display of the aurora borealis raged all across the heavens, scarlet and gold and violet banners and spears of Light like the clashing of radiant armies on a star-spiked battleground.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Their mutual fear was as yet unspoken; nevertheless, Deveron and Induna made love that night as though it were to be their last time together. Afterwards they lay in each other's arms inside the tiny military tent that they shared, listening to the gentle rustle of cold drizzle on the waxed canvas.

At the Sovereign's command, the Southern Wing of the Cathran army - all
of them mounted, some on commandeered Didionite horses - had left Lake of Shadows and started north to rejoin the main force on its march into Tarn. Earl Marshal Parlian's force, including Deveron and Induna, was now bivouacked for the night along the highroad some thirty leagues below Castle Direwold, while the cavalry led by Conrig and Sealord Sernin had halted halfway up the steep zigzag track to Frost Pass. The riders of the Northern Wing intended to cross the pass late in the morning, while most of its foot-soldiery and war-engines, now commanded by Lord Lieutenant Hale Brackenfield, would require another day or more to scale the height. If all went well, Parlian's army would overtake and
bypass the slower-moving contingent and reach Conrig's camp in Tarn late on the morrow.

But Deveron Austrey could not wait that long.

'It's time for me to leave you now, Duna. It must be nearly midnight. The camp is finally settled down to sleep.'

She clung to him. 'If I could only change your mind, love! Don't use Subtle Gateway. Ride with us to Tarn instead. Conrig doesn't expect to meet with you until tomorrow night, at the earliest.'

'The uncanny premonition prompts me to go to him now, without delay, even if it means using my sigil. I have to do this. The distance to be traveled isn't great, as the crow flies. The pain-penalty should not be too severe.'

She buried her face in the crook of his arm and he felt her body shudder. 'It's not the pain I worry about - it's the Beaconfolk themselves. When you used Gateway to journey from Andradh to the Green Morass, they sent you where you wanted to go - but they intended that you should die on arrival! It's obvious now that they didn't want you to rejoin the New Conflict. Who knows what they might do now if they suspect you plan to dissuade King Conrig from using sigil sorcery?'

'It's a chance I must take.'

'Could you not consult with the Source first? Perhaps your premonition is false.'

'I tried to bespeak him, sweetheart, but he didn't reply. For all I know, the feeling of dire urgency comes from him - or from those good Likeminded Lights who are his allies in the Conflict.'

He disentangled himself from the cocoon of blankets and began to dress. The golden case with the owl blazon that held his moonstones hung from a chain around his neck.

‘I shall pray unceasingly for your safety,' Induna said. 'You must be on guard every moment you're with King Conrig. If he possesses a Destroyer, as Prince Bramlow said, he could slay you in an eyeblink if he perceives you as a threat.'

'I think he'll want to ask me a number of questions about sigil sorcery first. In fact, I'm counting on it. With both Lord Stergos and Beynor gone, the king has no one else to consult save the Beaconfolk - and he might be having second thoughts by now about their unexpected generosity. Conrig has coveted moonstones for years. I'm only too aware of that. But he also knows what they did to Ullanoth - and to her mother before her. I must convince him not to use the stones, help him to understand how deadly dangerous they are, not only to him but also to all the people of our island.'

'Ironcrown is not known for sweet reasonableness and a tender conscience,' she said with asperity. 'Princess Maude would tell you that if she were still alive! Deveron, I'm afraid of the man. His arrogance and ambition are unbridled and he may not be entirely sane.'

'I hope to gain a better idea of the king's state of mind by talking to Vra-Bramlow first. When he spoke to me on the wind earlier today, he appeared to be intelligent and genuinely concerned for his royal father's wellbeing.'

'Do you really believe Bramlow can give you valid insight? Few children can be objective about a parent.'

'With luck, I'll be able to cajole Conrig himself into revealing his intentions concerning the sigils.' He smiled and kissed her lips lightly. 'Remember, in Andradh I was known as Haydon the Sympath. One of the most useful tools a healer can have is the ability to pry the truth out of patients who would rather keep their secrets hidden.'

'I still don't understand why you're willing to leave Prince Dyfrig. If he's destined to become the Sovereign -'

‘I don't know that for certain. I only assumed it because of Red Ansel's dying words and Cray and Thalassa's belief that the old shaman may have been right. For some reason, it never occurred to me to put that question directly to the Source himself. Now I wonder why! Perhaps his original
message to you was the correct one after all, and
Conrig
is my true charge.'

'Then heaven help you.' Her voice broke. 'For I think he sees himself as Bazekoy reborn! But the emperor didn't use sorcery to conquer, he hated and shunned it and barred men with talent from the Cathran throne and most positions of great power. Bazekoy ordered that the dead sigils found on the bodies of slain Salka be smashed to bits. Every Tarnian shaman knows this, although modern Cathrans seem to have forgotten.'

'Which is why I must go to King Conrig and enlighten him . . . and you, my love, must ride with Prince Dyfrig and Earl Marshal Parlian tomorrow and do the same.'

'What do you mean?'

'They'll ask where I've gone. Tell them. Explain why Conrig can't be trusted to wield those Great Stones, and why I'm going to do my utmost to stop him. Tell them all about our work for the Source. Tell them of the New Conflict and how it threatens humanity, how the Beaconfolk want to use us as they used the Salka, as pawns in a depraved super natural game.'

'But will they believe me?'

'Dyfrig may have trouble grasping it all, but I think old Parlian will understand. Especially about Conrig's dreams of world conquest using sigils. Inform Dyfrig that the Source said that he himself is to play a vital role in the defense of this island, but don't suggest that he may become the next Sovereign. We don't know that for certain, and the very idea of it might distract the prince at a time when he'll need all his wits about him.'

'Very well.'

'Stay close to Dyfrig and the earl marshal on the march tomorrow. Be ready to relay to them any windspoken message I may send you. Part of my premonition is that
strategic matters are coming quickly to a head. We'll know before long where the Salka are.’

‘When . . . will you return to me?'

He reached out for her in the dark and drew her close against him. He was fully dressed now in a winter hunting habit, a hooded raincape, and stout boots. He wore no armor and carried only a shortsword and a dagger, but the two sigils were now free of their case and nestling against the bare skin of his chest, ready to be called upon.

‘I don't know how long this mission will take. I'll bespeak you after I reach Conrig safely, then again as soon as I have something important to report. Now kiss me farewell, my dear. Come into my mind and rest there. Know that I'll always love you, always be with you. Do you believe me?'

'Yes,' she said as his lips tasted her tears, and let him go.

He slipped out of the tent and made his way toward the outer perimeter of the elongate encampment, which was bisected by the Wold Road. The only fires were at scattered watchposts, but he rendered himself invisible with the minor sigil Concealer so none of the prowling sentries would delay him. This part of the heath was open and mostly devoid of trees, cut here and there by brushy streambeds carrying small torrents. He descended into one of these so that his uncanny departure would be unnoticed, then voided the spell of invisibility.

Reaching into his jerkin with an ungloved hand, he took hold of the Great Stone Subtle Gateway and closed his eyes. He intoned the command 'EMCHAY MO' and instructed the sigil to transport him to the pavilion of Prince Heritor Corodon and Vra-Bramlow, on the trail leading up to Frost Pass.

He felt no pain, only a sudden great chill. Soft inhuman voices whispered inside his mind:
WHAT
DO YOU WANT?

Stricken with dread - for this same thing had happened to him once before, when he first attempted to use Gateway
-
he opened his eyes. He was surrounded by starless black space. Limned against it were innumerable glowing faces depicted in colored Light. They spoke to him in unison, repeating the same question, and he realized to his astonish ment that they addressed him in his own language, not that of the Salka.

So he replied in kind. ‘I want you to transport me where I asked to go.'

WHO ARE YOU?

They almost caught him off-guard. But he recovered in time and said: 'Snudge. I'm Snudge.'

THAT
IS YOUR NAME AND IT
IS NOT
YOUR NAME. TELL US YOUR TRUE NAME SO WE MAY KNOW YOU COMPLETELY. THIS IS NECESSARY FOR THE ULTIMATE FORGING OF THE LINKAGE AND OUR VICTORY IN THE NEW CONFLICT.

'My name is Snudge, Great Lights.'

At that, a commotion broke out amongst the spectral visages. The Beacons began whirling around him. Some of them kept their composure while others roared or howled in a swelling crescendo of fury until a shattering hiss silenced them. Then, as before, Snudge heard the Beaconfolk arguing
-
although it seemed they were unaware that he was able to listen.

Snudge is not his name it is his JOB again he plays with us defies us.

He insults us he should be cast into the Hell of Ice.

Into hell! Into hell with this trickster!

No. We need him. We must cajole him.

Coerce and bribe him as we bend him to our will.

He is the perfect ally for the World Conqueror.

No no no no kill him punish him drink his pain to the end!

Kill the rule-twister.

Yes!

Conrig needs him and we need Conrig.

The Conflict rages! The Sky is aflame!

CONRIG AND SNUDGE ARE THE KEYS TO VICTORY.

Ohhhhh . . . Human keys not Salka? The irony the strangeness!

Show Snudge the bribe. Let that decide the matter.

The bribe yes the STUPID bribe for a STUPID human!

It is done.

* * *

Deveron Austrey heard spectral laughter and experienced a flash of chaotic brilliance. So it was the Beaconfolk who had instilled the sense of foreboding in him, compelling him to use the Great Stone that would place him in their power! This thing about his true name . . . why had they still been unable to discover it?

Because you did not tell them,
another voice said.

'Source? Is it you? Speak to me! I have so many questions -'

But there was no response. Then he felt himself falling, landed on solid ground with a bone-jarring thud, and opened his eyes to almost impenetrable conifer-scented darkness and a deluge of rain. It took a moment for him to exert his talent and focus his mind's eye to render the night scene visible.

He was in a woodland clearing. At his feet were the drowned remains of a campfire and on either hand lay the motionless bodies of two men. Their saddlebags were nearby, unbuckled but otherwise undisturbed, along with the homely implements for tea-making.

One of the men, a strapping fellow well but plainly dressed, lay on his back. He had died hard
for his face was frozen in a terrible grimace of agony and his lifeless eyes were wide open and weeping raindrops.

Deveron had never seen him before.

The other victim, who had fallen on his face, wore more expensive garb - including an ornate belt with a splendid scabbard and sword. Deveron felt his breath catch. He knelt and turned the body over, whispering an oath. The features were smeared with mud, but this man was undoubtedly Beynor of Moss, the one who had invaded Deveron's dreams. His eyes were closed and his expression tranquil. One of his hands held the sword pommel in a grip of iron. His body showed no obvious marks of violence.

Deveron climbed to his feet again and set about scrying the entire scene. Hoofprints, partially washed away by the rain, marked the ground. A pile of manure and the torn branches of adjacent juniper bushes suggested that horses had been tethered there but had later broken free. More extensive windsearching revealed that the small grove of pine trees stood atop a hill adjacent to a principal highway traversing a desolate moorland. It had to be the Wold Road.

There was no trace of the Sovereign's army anywhere in the surrounding countryside. In fact, Deveron could discern no living soul anywhere within five leagues.