Ironcrown Moon

  Maudrayne was incredulous. “Those miserable amphibian monsters? They were vanquished and decimated by Emperor Bazekoy over a thousand years ago! The few that survive hide in the fens of Moss and in distant islands of the eastern sea. They are no threat—”

  “They were not, so long as they remained dispirited and bereft of hope. But their mental outlook has changed. Someone has offered them a powerful new weapon that bids fair to restore their ascendance. And their numbers are not few. Over the centuries their population has grown until once again they represent a formidable menace. As yet, only the Salka of the Dawntide Isles have been roused from their ancient lethargy. But if their more numerous Moss-dwelling kin were inspired by the battle success of the Dawntiders…”

  Rusgann had been listening intently, and now with her usual forthright-ness she did not hesitate to interrupt the shaman. “You talked about two inhuman forces. Who’s the second?”

  “You call them the Beaconfolk,” Ansel replied. “And because you are a native of Cathra, you’ve long since forgotten their power and their malignant nature, relegating them to legend. But the Great Lights are real, and their evil threatens all parts of the world where the aurora shines regularly in the sky.”

  Rusgann gave a guffaw of disbelief, but the princess silenced her and addressed the shaman. “I am no Cathran. I’m a daughter of Tarn, and perhaps willing to concede that you may be telling the truth. I say perhaps, because your word on this weighty matter is no longer enough to sway my conscience. I was greatly wronged by Conrig Wincantor. My son’s injury is greater, since he is being denied his royal birthright. If I’m to postpone my demand for justice, you must convince me that there is good reason.”

  “I can but try. There are other calls on my time, but from time to time I can visit you in your new residence—”

  “Prison!”

  “—in your new place of confinement and discuss this very complex matter at greater length. I was probably remiss not to have explained it to you earlier. My excuse is that the Source has not fully confided in me, either, and the threat to humanity from the Salka hordes became obvious only a few months ago.” He came closer to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Maudie, you are as dear to me as a daughter. To cage you and your little son tears the heart from my body, and I would that it were possible to set you free. But at present, I can-not. Not while you still threaten Conrig… and he threatens you. But the situation is not without hope. The Source has assured me of that.”

  She pulled herself away in a sharp motion and stepped back, eyes flashing. “How gratifying for both of you! Meanwhile, Dyfrig and I must languish in a wilderness, deprived of human companionship and all the things that make living worthwhile.”

  “This place where I’m taking you is far more agreeable than Dobnelu’s steading.” The shaman almost seemed to be pleading with her. “You won’t be so closely guarded. You can ride and hunt and fish, and even take short voyages on a small sailboat. You’ll have more congenial people around you—even young playmates for Dyfrig. I’ve provided an extensive library for your pleasure. There are musical instruments and art supplies for your use and for the education of your son. If you have need of anything, your custodians will do their utmost to supply it.”

  “Really?” Almost as quickly as it had flared, the fire went out of her and she seemed diminished and subdued. The high color faded from her face and even her vivid auburn hair seemed to dull. The sunlight was waning as the overcast thickened. To the west, the tall volcanos on the horizon were turning to opaque grey shadows.

  He drew a silver tube from inside his tunic and held it out to her. “It was to be a gift for young Dyfrig—the ‘something interesting’ I promised to show him. Spy through it at the summit of the tallest hill, and you’ll see where we’re bound: Skullbone Peel, the fortified summer residence of Ontel Pikan, my cousin, and his family.”

  With reluctance, she lifted the cylinder to her eye. It was far from being a conventional spyglass, and she saw the distant structure enormously magnified, a small but massive square keep, built of shining white stone and topped by battlements. A gable-roofed wing extended from its south side, at the end of which rose a narrow round turret topped with an odd construct that looked like a windmill.

  She lowered the glass. “It looks impregnable.”

  “No one will harm you while you dwell there. The view from the water-tower is said to be stupendous. On a clear day you can see for sixty leagues in all directions. There are broad steps hewn from the living rock descending the seaward side, and at their base is a sheltered cove where whalers and other boats that ply the Desolation Coast may put in during storms. Skullbone Peel is an outpost of Fort Ramis, which lies forty leagues to the south. The fort is also held by my cousin Ontel, who is a skilled shaman famed for accurate predictions of the weather. He is much respected by the seamen of the area.”

  “A weather-wizard.” She sighed. “I hope he’s better company than the crabby old sea-hag.”

  “We’d better be moving on,” Ansel said. “It’ll be two more hours before we reach the hill. Please take your ease while I check the team. There’s food and drink in a basket inside the wagon. Dyfrig will wake if you touch his forehead.” He went to examine the ponies’ harness.

  Silently, Maudrayne handed the spyglass to Rusgann, who peered eagerly at their new home. “I see someone on the battlements. A woman!”

  “My cousin’s wife, Tallu,” Ansel said. “She’s a remarkable person, Maudie. You may get on well with her.”

  “Another magicker?” the princess asked, turning away with conspicuous disinterest.

  “Oh, no,” said the shaman. “Tallu is a noted sea-warrior of the Desolation Coast. She’ll take very good care of all of you.”

  The conferring of honors and the great feast were finally over. Duke Berkus Mallthorpe was resting his gouty foot and listening to a string quartet. Duchess Kenna had taken Queen Bryse to her private quarters for quiet conversation, and nursemaids were putting the royal children to bed in the guest chambers. Left to his own devices—a rare enough thing on the closely orchestrated royal progress—King Honigalus strolled the parapet atop the wall of Mallthorpe Castle with Galbus Peel, Fleet Captain of the Realm, who was also his closest friend and most trusted adviser.

  The King of Didion was a stocky man whose thoughtful features were almost homely, and not even the most sumptuous attire was capable of making him an imposing figure. Once he had joked to Peel that the royal regalia made him look like an honest packhorse tricked out in the gaudy caparison of a tournament destrier. He was happiest at sea, and before the death of his father Achardus, he had commanded the Fleet with reasonable efficiency, acknowledging his continuing debt to the naval prowess of Galbus Peel, Fleet Captain of the Realm.

  On the throne he had been less of a success. He came to the kingship bearing the onus of defeat. But even if he had not surrendered to Conrig, he was perhaps too civilized to reign over a land barely lifted from barbarism. He utterly lacked the fighting panache and animal vitality that had made his hulking father respected even by the marcher lords who regularly rebelled against him. Honigalus Mallburn had accomplished near miracles restoring his vanquished, starving nation to prosperity, but many of the great merchants and lords seemed unwilling to grant him credit for his efforts, while the common people had never forgiven his capitulation to the Sovereignty.

  Honigalus knew all this, and accepted it stolidly. What happiness he gleaned from life came from Queen Bryse’s unconditional devotion, the gratification of having sired three handsome, intelligent children who loved him with all their hearts, and the support of a handful of staunch friends such as Galbus Peel, who were not afraid to speak to him as though he were a man, rather than a monarch.

  “Look at that moon,” the Fleet Captain murmured. “Red as blood! They say forest fires are burning in the Elderwold. The smoke in the air no doubt causes the baleful color.”

  “It may be a portent as well, Galbus,” the
king said quietly. He rested his elbows on the hewn stone of the battlement and stared at the carmine orb rising downriver.

  Peel shot him a look of concern. “Of what, sire—if I may ask?”

  “Before we sat down to feast, my wizard was bespoken by a high-ranking Brother who is a senior servant to King Conrig. It seems that the Cathrans have uncovered a far-ranging conspiracy. The conflagration at Gala Palace was a sort of opening salvo in a series of other inauspicious events designed to undermine our Sovereign’s rule. The good Brother was careful not to go into specifics—which leads me to suspect that the happenstances must be very dire indeed. Conrig warns me that there might also be dirty work afoot in Didion.”

  “What kind of dirty work?”

  “Conrig’s people have heard rumors that Somarus may be plotting against my life.”

  “Anything specific that we can look into?” Peel was pragmatic.

  “Not much. My sister Risa had a message from Somarus, asking if she’d support him if he challenged the Sovereignty. She refused, God love her.”

  “Prince Somar’s been trumpeting insurrection for years, sire, and doing precious little else but spouting hot air. What reason have we for taking him seriously now?”

  “The tip about an assassination scheme came from an unusual source,” the king said. “Old King Olmigon had a Royal Alchymist who exerted an unhealthy influence in the Cathran Privy Council. The man’s name is Kilian, and he and Conrig were at daggers drawn from the time the Prince Heritor earned his belt and began to take an active role in affairs of state. Kilian was convicted of high treason and imprisoned. He recently escaped, and seems to have instigated the big fire in Gala Palace—among other high crimes. One of Kilian’s cronies turned his coat and exposed details of a grand conspiracy the alchymist had hatched. Part of it involves killing me and all my family so that Somarus can assume the throne.”

  “Great Starry Dragon! I’ve heard of this Kilian, sire. He was supposed to be working with Beynor of Moss at one point.”

  Honigalus nodded. “And may still be, according to Conrig’s windspeaker. Kilian has lost a lot of his magical power, but he’s still a force to reckon with. What’s more, he’s apparently making his way into Didion—presumably to link up with Somar in the Elderwold.”

  Galbus Peel blew out a relieved breath. “Well, then! If the bastard is nowhere near here, we need have no immediate fears for your safety. We can obtain a sketch and a description of him and spread the alarum throughout the kingdom. Archwizard Fring can cope with sorcerous threats.”

  “Fring!” The king’s fingers drummed on the stone and he frowned. “He still hasn’t joined the progress. Let’s make certain he does so before we leave Boarsden. He’s the best windsearcher we have. We can put him to work ferreting out this traitorous Cathran magicker.”

  “Sire, you may have to look closer into your brother’s activities as well. I know you’ve been loath to take him seriously, but that may have been unwise. He needs to be put under constant wind surveillance, if our bumbling wizards can manage it. And we should try again to insert normal-minded secret agents into his mob of followers—naval types rather than adepts beholden to Fring. I’m not sure how trustworthy the Archwizard is.”

  The king sighed. “How I wish we could stay here in Mallthorpe another day! Duke Berkus is a kindly old stick without a conspiratorial bone in his body, and my wife adores the duchess. Things are likely to be much less pleasant at Boarsden Castle tomorrow. My late stepmother’s people are obliged to extend their hospitality, but I’ll likely have to turn a blind eye to all manner of petty affronts.”

  “If that’s all that disquiets your visit, sire, you may count yourself lucky. I wouldn’t put it past Prince Somarus to pop in on his uncle and auntie just to pay his respects.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!” Honigalus exclaimed. “He’s banished from court.”

  “Duke Ranwing is a quirky sod. It might just tickle his fancy to encourage a surprise encounter between you and Somarus.”

  “I’ll have Ran’s guts for garters if he does,” the king growled. But both of them knew the sad truth: Lord Boarsden was too important a peer to antagonise. If Somarus turned up, Honigalus would have to grin and bear it.

  The king and his friend stood side by side for a few minutes more, watching the moonrise, then decided to go to bed early. The royal party was scheduled to embark before dawn because the voyage between Mallthorpe and Boarsden was a long one. The rapids in that section of the river and the eddy off Boar Creek would test the mettle of the oarsmen and the nerves of the barge’s more timid passengers.

  “It’ll be a lively ride tomorrow,” the king observed. “Gorgeous scenery, and the thrill of breasting the Whitewater. Queen Bryse and the older children always enjoy the excitement. And knowing what I might have to face later on in Boarsden, I’m looking forward to a little fun myself.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Royal Fenguard castle was thrown into an uproar when Ullanoth vanished from her bed of pain, for her counselors knew she was too weak to walk, and no servant would admit to having assisted her in leaving her private apartment.

  Wix, the queen’s elderly Lord of Chamber, the only one she had entrusted with keys to every room in her tower, was the one who finally found her. Reluctantly, he dared to enter her inner sanctum, where she had been accustomed to perform her most delicate magical operations. He burst into tears when he saw her, cold and unbreathing and without a heartbeat, lying on the peculiar tilting couch that she sometimes used while Sending. Still weeping, he summoned Grand Master Ridcanndal, the High Thaumaturge Zimroth, and Akossanor the Royal Physician. They were the ones whose official duty it was to confirm that the Conjure-Queen was dead.

  The doctor studied her ruined young face, all bony angles and transparent, tight-stretched skin. He lifted one of her eyelids. The pupil was wide and black, indicative of lifelessness. A mirror held to her nostrils remained unclouded. She had no pulse, and her lips were tinged with blue. Rigor seemed to have passed already from her body, but it was cold as ice and nearly as unyielding to the touch.

  “Our poor queen is gone from this world,” Akossanor announced in a somber voice. “Summon her tirewomen. Let her corpse be washed and dressed in full royal regalia, so that she may sit upon her throne according to our custom and receive the homage of the people one final time.”

  “Wait,” Lady Zimroth said. “Stand aside, physician.” The elderly Thaumaturge, dressed all in grey samite, lifted Ullanoth’s right hand, which had been partially covered by her gown. The moonstone ring on the queen’s index finger glowed faintly green. “Look there. That stone is alive!” Cautiously, Zimroth pulled up two thin chains that hung about the queen’s neck and drew from the bosom of her night-shift two more Great Stones. Subtle Loophole and Sender also retained their inner luminosity. “Her lesser sigils! Fetch the container, Wix!”

  The loyal old man’s grief had vanished in an instant. Eagerly, he took a key from the ring at his belt and unlocked the cabinet where the sigils were kept when not in use. He removed a small platinum casket and lifted its lid. “They’re glowing!” he cried. “Beastbidder, Concealer, and Interpenetrator are alive!”

  “And therefore Queen Ullanoth also lives,” Zimroth declared, “but not, I think, within this poor physical shell.”

  “Where is she then?” Wix implored her.

  Zimroth and the Grand Master of the Glaumerie Guild exchanged glances. He shook his head and said, “Only the sorcery of the Great Lights could have done this to her. I know not how it was done, or to what purpose. The matter will have to be studied.”

  “But is she still suffering?” Wix asked anxiously. “Oh, tell me that her soul is safe somewhere and not in pain!”

  “I have no answers,” Ridcanndal said. “Never have I heard of such a thing as this happening before. She certainly has not been cast into the Hell of Ice as her mother was, since her flesh is unfrozen and her features tranquil for all their ravaged appearance.”
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  “I believe Ullanoth may be in a kind of limbo state,” Zimroth said. “Neither alive nor dead. We must take special care of these remains. There must be no evisceration, no packing with spices, no enshrouding, no interment in an airless crypt. Her body must be kept ready to receive her soul if it should suddenly return from its uncanny exile.” She looked away, thinking. “We require a room, totally secure, where no enemy may intrude. Let her be dressed well, and her hair arranged. Lay her out on a couch as a woman sleeping. Every day, someone must look upon her in case there is a change… for better or worse.”

  “So you think she may yet die?” Akossanor asked quietly.

  “If the body falls into corruption, it cannot be reanimated and we shall have to consign it to the usual funeral pyre. But I believe it will not decay so long as she remains in this peculiar state, and the possibility remains that she may return.”

  Wix drew himself up with pride. “I take it upon myself to prepare a suitable place of repose for my beloved mistress. With your permission, I’ll put her in the uppermost chamber of this tower, where tall crystal windows give a broad view of our land of Moss. There I will guard her until she wakes—or until my own death supervenes.” He looked uncertainly at Zimroth and Ridcanndal. “Will she keep her sigils with her?”

  “I think not. Even though they are still active and bonded to her, there are certain complex spells written down in the Book of Rothbannon able to annul the bonding and transfer ownership of the stones to someone else. We must not let this happen.”

  Zimroth went to a nearby workbench and took up a pair of golden tongs. Using these, she teased the Weathermaker ring from Ullanoth’s skeletal finger. Cutting pliers severed the delicate neckchains and let the two pendants fall free. With the tongs, the Thaumaturge placed the three Great Stones in their velvet nests within the platinum box. This she handed to the Grand Master. “The stones must be secured in the traditional place for ownerless sigils— Rothbannon’s tomb, where his ashes lie. See to it, Ridcanndal.” She turned to Wix and the physician. “You two must take care of her body. And I…” She grimaced. “I shall announce to our people that Conjure-Queen Ullanoth lies enchanted, and until she is restored, the government of the kingdom devolves upon the Glaumerie Guild’s officers. After that, I intend to bespeak Conrig Wincantor’s windvoice with this melancholy news. I will ask the Sovereign how he intends to fulfill the solemn promise he made to our queen, before she agreed to perform what was to be her final service for him.”