Sorcerer's Moon (70 page)

The last words were flung out like a gauntlet of defiance, and Deveron could only lower his head and say nothing. How could he explain to Conrig Wincantor the way that the two of them differed?

The king pressed on. 'Can I not use my sigils as prudently as you do? As Rothbannon did? If course I can! I'll prove it in the upcoming battle with the Salka, those dimwitted tubs of blubber. And when I've conquered them, I'll find other
good uses for the moonstones, paying their pain-price willingly for the sake of my people.'

'Sire, the Beaconfolk cannot be trusted to deal with you fairly. They don't follow our moral principles - or even our logic. If they think you insult or threaten them, if they believe that you're using your Great Stones in a manner they disapprove, they're capable of torturing you to death and condemning you to the Hell of Ice. The mother of Ullanoth and Beynor suffered such a fate, and the horror of it drove her husband King Linndal insane -'

'That's enough!' Conrig smacked his hand onto the table and made the stones jump. 'Queen Taspiroth was a silly woman. God knows what idiotic command she gave to her sigil that provoked the wrath of the Beacons.'

'Sire, the moonstones and the sorcery they channel are evil. I'm certain of this. The Source has assured me of it -and he is the very one who invented the perverse game of power and pain in the first place, and started the first war in the Sky Realm in a failed attempt to put an end to it.'

'What do I care about mysterious battles fought amongst the stars? My role is to save my people from the Salka!'

'If you use sigils against them, you'll endanger not only yourself but also every human being living on our island. When Emperor Bazekoy conquered the monsters he had his warriors destroy every sigil they found on the dead bodies of the foe. The Beacons probably tempted the emperor to join their game, too -'

'Codswallop!' the Sovereign bellowed, leaping up from his stool. 'No one's tempted me. And
you
flirt again with treason, Deveron Austrey, to insinuate such a vile calumny. You imply that you yourself can be trusted to use sigils wisely, and I cannot!'

'Not at all, sire. If I could get rid of mine, I'd do it in an instant. But the Source commanded me to keep them for
the time being, so I've obeyed. And in truth, Concealer and Gateway have small potential for bringing unwitting harm upon others. The same is not true of your own Destroyer sigil.'

Conrig had thrown off his heavy fur robe and was pacing back and forth, scowling. 'It's a weapon. Any weapon can be misused. I'm not a fool. Rothbannon of Moss wielded a Destroyer to establish and secure his kingdom. He died in his sleep with a smile on his face and his mistress beside him under a swansdown quilt.'

'But he used Destroyer only sparingly. He was also a sorcerer of vast experience who knew the quirks and vagaries of the Beaconfolk. Forgive me, sire, but you are untrained in the magical arts - and your sons told me the sad news about Lord Stergos, so you no longer have him as a guide.'

‘I have
you.'
Conrig extended the hand that bore Weathermaker. 'And when you entered my pavilion, you had snowflakes melting on your shoulders. So begin your service to the Sovereignty by instructing me how to use this ring to fend off snow in the pass above us. The Beaconfolk said that all I need do was command it like a trusty servant. Were they telling me true or not?'

Deveron's response was resigned. 'Perhaps. Only use common sense, sire. Make the sigil's job as easy as possible to accomplish. Say something like, 'Deflect all snowstorms from the pass until my army has gone safely through.' It would be imprudent to say, 'Let sunny skies and warm breezes prevail in Tarn until I command otherwise.' Such weather is not natural for northern latitudes at this time of year. As for the army's march from the pass to the Donorvale estuary, the sigil might indeed obey a command to produce a long interval of clement weather. But only at the price of debilitating pain that would render you incapable of leading
your troops for many days. Conjure-Queen Ullanoth was so afflicted when she changed the weather drastically during your campaign against Holt Mallburn, and again at the Battle of Cala Bay. Surely you recall this.'

'I'm going to use the sigil anyhow,' Conrig said. He had stopped pacing and now lifted the finger wearing the ring. In a voice that was quiet and resolute, he repeated Deveron's first suggested command.

Weathermaker flared momentarily, like an emerald struck by a bright sunbeam. Then it dimmed to its former slow blinking. The king regarded it with bemusement. 'Do you suppose it worked?'

'I - I would think so. Do you feel any pain?'

'Not a bit. Is that usual?'

'No. But in my own experience, the primary pain-debt is extracted when one sleeps.'

'Well, shite,' muttered Conrig with a grimace. 'As if I didn't have enough to contend with, having the damned night mares - and the latest this very night, just before Bram woke me to meet with you. But if Beynor is dead, how can such a thing be?'

'Sire?' Deveron was mystified. 'You suffer from bad dreams?'

The king's expression changed and he seemed to stare at something at a far distance, speaking in a strange slow voice that made Deveron's skin crawl.

'My sleep has been uneasy for many years. Every sort of shadowy enemy torments me - seeks to seize my Iron Crown and destroy the Sovereignty I have dedicated my life to preserving. Some of the dreamfoes are Salka. Some are human. There is also a
dark fiend lacking eyes, imprisoned in some distant glacial chasm, who seeks to take my crown by guile rather than by might and main. In earlier nightmares I fought all these opponents with my sword and talent and won . . . until the coming of the traitor prince,
the greatest enemy of them all.' The king closed his eyes and was still for some time.

Finally Deveron said, 'Sire, you intimated that Beynor provoked these phantasms. I know he is capable of dream-invasion, but -'

Unseeing, Conrig spoke again with the same eerie detach ment. 'This disloyal son of mine has no face. The only weapon that can prevail against him is the sigil named Destroyer. In one dream, Beynor showed me that much. Later, when we spoke face-to-face, he admitted he'd used nightmares to seize my attention. He tried to convince me that I was incapable of using sigil sorcery safely without his close guidance. But the Great Lights told me otherwise. They'd cursed Beynor! Why would they permit that curse to be circumvented? And now the Conjure-King is dead. Defeated. But the traitor prince remains, held at bay only by Destroyer. I thought I knew his name. Now I'm not certain who he is. But I'll find out.' The king smiled. 'With your help.'

Deveron stiffened. 'You expect me to spy on the Heritor and Vra-Bramlow?'

Conrig's eyes refocused, dark and effulgent. 'I expect you to watch them and fend off any attempted perfidy on their part. And when Dyfrig Beorbrook joins our host in a day or so, you'll watch him as well. Only if you swear to do this will I permit you to serve the Sovereignty.' He removed Weathermaker from his finger and set it down. His hand hovered close to Destroyer.

'Very well, sire. You have my oath on it. I'll carry out this duty to the best of my ability. Am I dismissed?'

'Not yet. You were always an exceptional long-distance scrier, Snudge. Do you still retain this skill?'

'If anything, I'm better at it than ever.'

'My sons Corodon and Orrion . . . both have a tiny
modicum of talent, as I do. I think you already know this. Can I trust you to keep their unfortunate secret?'

'I'll do so as my conscience permits, sire.'

'I have a reason for bringing the subject up. Last night, Bram thought he heard his brother Orrion bespeak him across many leagues. Is this possible?'

'It might be.'

'Orry is supposed to have reported that the Salka are invading via Terminal Bay in Didion, rather than in Tarn as Sealord Sernin's shamans
have confirmed. Orry was supposedly cast away when the brig he sailed on from Karum Port was sunk by a single explosion of green light. Another such explosion is supposed to have blocked the single channel into Terminal Bay.'

'Great God - but the Salka are only supposed to possess minor sigils! None of them could wreak such havoc'
Only a Destroyer could . . .

'In my opinion, Bramlow only fancied that his brother bespoke him. The Tarnians scried no wreckage or bodies. They insist that any blockage of the channel must be due to natural causes. But I want you to scry Terminal Bay for me now, before you leave. Perhaps you might notice something that the shamans missed.'

'I'll try, sire. However, the windsenses of Sealord Sernin's magickers are probably keener than mine.'

Offering no apology, Deveron went to the Sovereign's own camp bed. He lay down atop the fine mink coverlet without removing his muddy boots, and hid his face in his hands.

Time passed. Conrig paced the uneven floor of the tent, stony soil thickly padded by sheepskin rugs. He ventured to peer outside. It was still very cold but the snow flurries had stopped. Bramlow and the guards huddled around a small fire talking in low tones and failed to notice him. Closing the tentflap, the king poured a small noggin of brandy into
a
handled pewter cup and held it over the coals in the brazier until the fragrant fumes rose and filled his head. Then he drank, returned to his stool, and waited.

After an interval that seemed endless, Deveron sat up, swinging his legs to the ground.

'What did you see?' Conrig demanded.

The intelligencer shook his head. 'Nothing. Nothing at all unusual in Terminal Bay save the vessels of the pirates tied up at docks or in deepwater moorages, the castles of the local lordlings with sleepy sentinels walking the battlements, and the dwellings of the common folk shut tight against the night. Smoke rises peacefully from their chimneys in the dead-calm air.'

The Sovereign turned away with a sigh. 'Very well. My son Bramlow awaits you outside. He'll find you a place to sleep. Tomorrow at dawn we'll start out for Frost Pass.'

'Very well, sire.'

Deveron inclined his head and left the royal pavilion without wishing Conrig a good night, since that eventuality was unlikely. The novice came to meet him, and the two of them silently made their way back to the princes' tent.

'Will you tell Coro and me how went your meeting with His Grace?' Bramlow asked rather nervously. 'Or do you deem it none of our business?'

'He conjured Weathermaker and asked that there be no snow in the pass. The sigil seemed to obey him in a surpris ingly docile fashion. The rest of our conversation I must keep confidential. That situation may change. But for now, I require you to tell me everything you know about those two pieces of uncarved moonstone that His Grace keeps with his sigils.'

* * *

The Lights fought.

The manner of their contention was incomprehensible to
beings of the Ground Realm, and since clouds had spread over most of High Blenholme Island, only a few humans abroad on that night witnessed the shocking auroral displays that tore the Sky asunder. Soundless death-flares blazed brighter than miniature suns until they shrank into dark oblivion. Again and again the Likeminded Exiles and their Remnant fellows assaulted the conduits of pain and power, but the breaks were only momentary and insufficient. Many good Lights were extinguished and more were gravely weakened; some retreated to rebuild their strength.

The Coldlight Army suffered the battle's toll as well, but unlike their antagonists they were able to drew fresh sustenance from the hundreds of Salka warriors on the world below, who worked and suffered throughout the long night.

A disciplined force of amphibian engineers, imperceptible to the few watchmen aboard the pirate vessels, utilized certain minor sigils to drill scores of holes into the hull of each sizable vessel in Terminal Bay. The work was done both delicately and quietly, so that the oaken planks were almost - but not quite - perforated in a broad circular pattern about an ell in diameter. None of the boats and ships sank. That would only happen the next day, when Attack Commander Tasatawnn gave the order, and Salka warriors used the power of their great bodies to rupture the weakened hulls.

Whereupon every important sailing craft in the pirate colony would go down at the same time.

* * *

Beneath the Ice, the One Denied the Sky knew nothing of these Salka activities. The spell of deceit woven by the monsters was too well-made for him to see through. However, the Source was
all too well aware of the continuing battle being fought in the heavens. He knew that his Likeminded colleagues needed his help desperately, but being creatures of the Sky Realm, they could not reach into his
prison below the Barren Lands and break the blue-ice manacle that still held him fast.

Only groundlings have the power to free me,
the Source told his frustrated friends.
I
require many minor sigils to be immolated in the abolition ceremony - or else a single Great Stone. Tell my human and Green helpers of my need. Beseech them to hurry! I find I can no longer bespeak them directly because of the Conflict's turmoil.

Unfortunately, the Likeminded were also incapable of communication with humans enlisted in the New Conflict, because the conduits between the realms were under heavy attack. The two pieces of mineral from the summit of Demon Seat that might have opened one of those conduits rested inside a leather pouch hanging about the neck of the sleeping Sovereign of Blenholme, along with his sigils and their empowering disk.

Conrig clutched the small sack as he dreamed. He success fully fended off the latest onslaught of the prince without a face just before the Beaconfolk began to exact their pain-price in earnest.

Dawn came, cold and overcast but with the bases of the clouds above the crest of the White Rime Range. The Cathran armies and the force of High Sealord Sernin Donorvale broke their respective camps and resumed their march toward the Tarnian rendezvous, a deep valley on the opposite side of Frost Pass, where the climate was milder and there would be green forage for the horses.