PRINCE, RESPOND!
The generalized hail on the wind contained but two words. It was launched from the crest of the Sinistral Mountains, as Kilian and his weary party paused to rest at the top of the secret pass before beginning their descent from the divide. The alchymist hoped to minimize the possibility of being overheard—although he knew there was scant hope of shutting out Beynor if he was minded to eavesdrop—so he projected the call northward, in the direction of the Lady Lakes, where he believed the intended recipient of his message to be. In that he was mistaken; and he received no reply. His next attempt was even more powerful, directed more to the east.
This time, Tesk the wizard and the Green Woman Cray, riding along the Boar Highroad behind Prince Somarus, heard Kilian’s hail clearly. So did another adept, who was surprised to recognize a once-familiar signature unheard on the wind for many years. This listener found the subsequent exchange both revealing and worrisome.
PRINCE, RESPOND!
Tesk was red-eyed and runny-nosed from summer rheum, so shocked by the vehemence of the mental shout that he reacted with a great sneeze that nearly flung him from the saddle of his stocky cob. Cray, who sat astride a dapple-grey pony next to the wizard, merely cocked her head and said quietly, “Did you hear it, too?”
“Aye. But which prince is its intended recipient?”
“Foolish man! A very powerful adept uttered that hail. Do you really imagine he wants to speak to King Honigalus’s infant sons?”
Somarus looked over his shoulder, frowning. “What’s all this, wizard?” The prince, like the others of his cavalcade save Tesk, was disguised as a simple household knight of Duke Ranwing Boarsden.
“I believe I heard windspeech intended for you, Highness. It would be best if we drew aside and stopped for a few minutes.” He shot a glance at Cray. “The Green Woman heard it, too.”
Somarus spoke a word to Baron Cuva, riding beside him, who in turn commanded the ten knights of the prince’s escort to pull up. They had spent the previous night under the friendly roof of Castlemont Fortress and set out very early so as to reach Boarsden and the River Malle by afternoon. It was now about the third hour and the air was hot and muggy, with a faint scent of smoke. This section of the Boar Highroad crossed a treeless marshland, and the company was sweaty, midge-bitten, and short-tempered, the knights not hesitating to express their unhappiness at being made to pause where there was no shade.
Somarus, Tesk, and Cray drew apart from the others but remained mounted.
Cray said, “King-in-Waiting, will you be guided by me in responding to this call? I sense overtones of peril on the wind. Answer this person only in general terms and with great circumspection.”
“Indeed! Perhaps I shouldn’t answer at all.” Somarus scowled. “But what if it’s Beynor of Moss, wanting to tell us that something’s gone awry with his scheme? We’d better know what’s happening.”
Cray said to Tesk, “Did you determine the direction of the hail?”
“Hard to tell with a blanket shout, but I believe it emanated from the mountains, to the southwest.”
“Not Beynor, then,” Cray said to Somarus.
“My curiosity’s roused,” the prince said. “Give an answer, Tesk. Find out what he wants, but don’t name me to him.” The wizard covered his eyes with his hand, since it was too hot to wear a hooded cloak. “An adept servant of a certain nobleman responds to you,” he spoke on the wind. “My name is Tesk. Identify yourself and state your business.”
Kilian Blackhorse here! My felicitations to His Lordship and to you, Master Tesk. I am the former Royal Alchymist of Cathra and a one-time member of King Olmigon’s Privy Council. I now have the honor to be a mortal enemy of the Sovereign of Blenholme, and recently escaped from the dungeon at Zeth Abbey after instigating a notable conflagration at Cala Palace. It’s my intention to offer my services as sorcerer and political adviser to the new King of Didion. I believe I can be of good use, assisting his nation to throw off Conrig Wincantor’s detestable yoke.
Tesk repeated the communication word for word.
“Well, well,” said Somarus, “Not Beynor, but rather his shadowy crony! Ask Kilian why he speaks of a ‘new King of Didion’ when everyone knows that Honigalus sits the throne.”
Tesk transmitted the terse message and gave its reply.
After today, there will be a new king. I’ve been assured of this by one who is not quite a friend, but not yet an enemy… to both His Lordship and myself.
“Mysteriously spoken,” Somarus said with a cynical smile. “Tell Kilian I’d already intended to keep a sharp eye on this not-quite-friend. I don’t need sly warnings popping out of thin air. I probably don’t need Kilian! Let him prove he can be of value to me—and do it at once. Otherwise, this exchange of ambiguities is over.”
Poor Tesk was a simple man, but he did his best to translate the message diplomatically.
As a sample of my usefulness, suppose I reveal to His Lordship how the transfer of royal power is to be accomplished without casting suspicion upon the obvious person?
Somarus nodded. “All right. I wondered about that myself.”
Of course you did. Even those who might otherwise welcome a new monarch would reject him if he took the throne through foul and dastardly means. After much thought, I found a sure way to preserve the royal person’s integrity. I myself conceived this plan, not the one who has doubtless taken credit for it! That one— that not-quite-friend—had neither the wit nor the subtlety to consider all aspects of this pivotal situation. I did.
“Tell me how it’s going to be done, then,” Somarus demanded. “Prove you’re as clever as you say you are. All I’ve heard of the affair from my own informant is a hint about a calamity on the water. I assumed some hired villains were planning a surprise attack—although I must say the idea doesn’t seem especially practicable. The—er—objects of the action are very well guarded. And how could the attackers be certain of getting clean away? If even one of them were taken and tortured into confessing, the scheme would unravel. To my detriment!”
The ambush on the water will be perpetrated by Salka.
“The hell you say!” exclaimed the prince. Tesk passed along the essence of the ejaculation.
Unimpeachable eye-witnesses onshore will see the deed done by the monsters. No human guards could possibly capture such enormous creatures, and if any are killed, it matters little. Who would ever believe that the King-in-Waiting could have coerced Salka into acting to his advantage? No, he will be held blameless, accepted as legitimate by Didion… and by Tarn as well.
“How did you talk the slimy brutes into cooperating?”
I didn’t. This, I freely concede, was done by our friend, who has a certain influence over them because of his nationality.
“I only have your word that you’re the great scheme’s author.”
I have other proposals for the new king’s advancement, equally valuable. Perhaps we might discuss them face-to-face.
“Or perhaps all three of us can talk things over! You, me, and our not-quite-friend. Then I can pick and choose.”
As you wish. But he may balk at a personal meeting. He much prefers dream-invasion.
“So you know about that, do you?”
He’s done it to me, as well as you. But since I know how dangerous the invasion can he to the dreamer, I always take special precautions. Otherwise, the invader may plant evil seeds in the mind of the sleeping person, compelling him to act against his will or reveal secrets. I earnestly hope you have been spared such outrages, Your Lordship.
“Great God of the Starry Roads! I never realized… These precautions: Can you teach them to me?”
I spent a good part of my earlier life as teacher to a king. Until His Grace’s son, out of jealousy and spite, named me a traitor and cast me down. This is why I now seek a new position with a more congenial liege lord, whom I will gladly instruct as he bids me.
“How soon can you reach Boarsden Castle?”
/> It may take as long as four days. I travel afoot through rugged mountains, with a few trusted companions. But our not-quite-friend is capable of reaching you much sooner. He may already he in the vicinity of the castle, waiting upon developments.
“Then I’ll keep him waiting a little longer! Come and talk to me, Kilian Blackhorse, and we’ll see whether congeniality prevails. Now, I bid you farewell.”
Tesk lifted his head and opened his eyes. “The alchymist responds: Until our meeting.”
“What did you think of him?” the prince asked. “Well-spoken sort of fellow, wasn’t he?”
“I’m sure he could serve you better than I,” the little wizard said humbly. “If he really was Royal Alchymist to the Cathran king, he must be a very powerful sorcerer indeed.”
Somarus grinned and clapped Tesk on the shoulder. “But is he trustworthy? That’s the real question. I know I can trust you, old friend.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
Somarus turned to the Green Woman, who had been listening with a grave expression on her face. “Mistress Cray, will you tell me what you thought of this Kilian’s proposal—and the man himself?”
“Why should my opinion matter to you?”
The prince persisted. His tone was light and bantering, but nonetheless fraught with intensity. “You’ve insisted on attaching yourself to my entourage. Only God knows why—or maybe your Source! You warned me to be cautious while bespeaking this man, and you seem like a person of great good sense. Please do me this small courtesy. Tell me what you think of Kilian Blackhorse.”
“He will never be any man’s friend,” she said, not meeting the prince’s eye. “There is no true loyalty in him, only expediency. He would serve you well in time of war, but not in peace. More I cannot tell you.”
“So Kilian would serve me well in time of war, eh?” The prince urged his horse forward with a body movement. “That sounds good enough… Baron Cuva! We’ll ride on now.”
Well concealed in a green cave of dense, overhanging branches at the river’s edge, Beynor crouched in his boat and called down silent imprecations on his wily confederate. So Kilian had regained his talent! He’d managed to rid himself of the iron gammadion without the help Beynor had promised him. And now the perfidious alchymist made bold to foment doubt in the mind of Somarus concerning Beynor’s integrity, apparently unconcerned about his windspeech being overheard.
That Kilian would act against him so blatantly—and so soon!—was ominously significant. It seemed plain that the alchymist felt himself in real danger of being denied a position of power in Somarus’s new regime, and knew he had to act swiftly. He was attempting to bolster his prospects at Beynor’s expense because he had precious little else to bargain with.
No trove.
Beynor realized that Kilian must have found out that most of the sigils and both magical books had been unaccountably lost by Felmar and Scarth. He’d know that both thieves were dead, because they would have failed to respond to his windspeech. But had he been able to oversee Scarth on his final journey? Did he know that the lesser sigils and one of the books had vanished into thin air, but that three Great Stones and the other magical book were hidden in a bear’s cave on the wrong side of the mountains?
Neither Kilian nor Beynor would be able to go after the things now. The alchymist would not dare to reenter Cathra while he was being actively hunted, even if he had some notion of the place Scarth had hidden them. It was imperative that Kilian respond immediately to Somarus’s rather halfhearted invitation if he hoped to obtain a place in the new king’s court. He’d worm himself into a position of influence, too; Beynor had no doubt of that.
As for me, the young sorcerer thought, I have more urgent business to look after! Earlier, Lady Zimroth had bespoken him the welcome news of Ullanoth’s enchantment and the secreting of the queen’s own collection of active sigils in Rothbannon’s tomb. Beynor had been hard put to damp the elation in his windspeech as he responded to the news. It could not have fallen out more perfectly, had he planned it so! Moss was left vulnerable to a massive invasion by the Salka, and his sister’s stones lay in a place that he alone might easily access.
The remnant of Darasilo’s Trove was still vitally important to him because it contained the Destroyer sigil, the key to ultimate power. But one step at a time—the Great Stone would keep. All he need do was make certain that Kilian never tried to approach it…
He spent some time observing the slow progress of the royal barge up the river. Its enormous square sail was furled because there was little wind; the boat’s motive power through the strengthening current was supplied by the laboring oarsmen.
He called out quietly on the wind. “Eminence, are your warriors arrayed in position yet?”
The reply came from under his boat. My people are in readiness. Are you aware that a party of well-dressed groundlings has ridden out from the castle and now travels slowly eastward along the dike path?
He wasn’t. He’d been absorbed in thought and had noticed nothing. Without acknowledging the fact to Ugusawnn, he scried across the water. On the southern shore, a league or so upstream, Boarsden Castle’s gilded gatehouse ornamentation, window-frames, and tower finials gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. It was an impressive pile, more lavishly furbished than any other Didionite ducal fortress to reflect the wealth and political importance of its lord. In honor of the royal visit, its battlements and the balustrade rail along the riverbank esplanade were decorated with colorful banners and swags of bunting. Boarsden’s urban precincts lay further upriver, where the Malle made its Big Bend to the north. Behind and below the castle, an extensive marshy area threaded by Boar Creek provided a natural water defense. The Boar Highroad from Castlemont crossed the morass on a broad causeway before coming to a Y-junction. The left branch went north to Boarsden Town. The right, now called Malle Highroad, continued east to the Firedrake Bridge and the large valley towns before ending at Holt Mallburn.
The party coming out from the castle did not take the highroad, but instead followed a lesser track along an earthen dike much closer to the river. As Beynor scrutinized the nearly two dozen richly dressed riders and their entourage, he was gratified to discover that they included Duke Ranwing, Duchess Piery, and the Archwizard of Didion himself, Fring Bulegosset, seeming to be completely recovered from his diplomatic illness. Trailing the nobles was a gaggle of liveried servants on mules, bearing hampers of food and drink, folding stools and tables, and poles and bundles of gaily painted canvas that would soon be converted into awnings sheltering the privileged picnickers from the glaring sun. The destination of the procession was obvious: a few hundred ells above a stout timber bridge at Boar Creek, where the river rapids were at their most dramatic and a great eddy added to the navigation challenge, the dike widened and formed a perfect observation platform where those onshore could view boats struggling upstream through the surging Whitewater.
The witnesses were gathering.
At the age of seven summers, Crown Prince Onestus of Didion was still too young to appreciate the richness of the countryside through which the royal barge now traveled, nor could he understand how such wealth made the great landholders prickly and independent-minded in their relations towards the Crown. In this region west of Mallthorpe were ripening fields of barley and oats, orchards that would produce pears, plums, and apples, and lush meadows where large herds of shaggy long-horned cattle grazed and fattened. As the barge passed each prosperous shore village, the prince and his royal father and mother stood together on the boat’s ornate sterncastle, beneath a sun-cover brave with colored pennants, and waved to the yeomen and villeins who had gathered to watch their passage. Some of the villagers cheered and called out blessings, as the citizens of the large cities had done earlier in the progress; but most were silent, only holding high the white banners with Didion’s heraldic Black Bear as they had been commanded to do by the overlords of their districts.
The single exception to the tepid
welcome vouchsafed the royals by the countryfolk of the upper Malle came late in the afternoon, as the barge passed beneath the high-arched Firedrake Bridge that lay about ten leagues downstream from Boarsden. Several hundred spectators crowded the decorated span, waving banners of the timberlords of the north, and shouting, “Long live Queen Bryse Vandragora!” Bouquets of roses were tossed down onto the main-deck, and Onestus was kept busy retrieving the flowers and heaping them into the arms of his mother. Each time she inclined her head in a gesture of thanks to those on the bridge, they responded with a roar of applause.
The prince said in a low voice to his parents, “I wish people at the other places had been so friendly.”
“These are free northern folk loyal to my family,” the queen told him, “who have come a long way of their own will to show their love—unlike the others, who were compelled to show homage.”
“I see,” the boy said somberly.
“Take the roses down to the cabin and ask the ladies to put them in water,” the king said. “Soon we’ll come to the lively section of the river. Your little brother is already on the foredeck, where the view is best. Why not join him? I’ll be there shortly myself.”
The boy bowed. “Yes, sire.”
When he was gone, Honigalus and Bryse watched the crew raise the great sail again. The oarsmen would need all the help they could get as they strove against the force of the swift-flowing water.