“That futterin‘ great booby Copperstrand!” Skellhaven exclaimed. “What did he think he was doing—holding ships in reserve, in case the Continentals snuck up behind him into Cala Bay?”
“I presume so. I’ve been informed that the southern corsairs are still in port, no doubt waiting to see how Honigalus fares.”
“I’ll wager they won’t stay there for long… Well, I’ll be on my way back to the quay. I’ll leave it to you to whistle up the magical gale. Count on me to take care of everything else.”
“I will,” said Conrig.
He watched the tattered, indomitable viscount stride from the throne room, then summoned Tayman and Feribor, who waited with most of the other Heart Companions for the prince’s orders. Swiftly, he informed them of his decision to sail south, delegating each a particular area of preparation. “We’ll take the surviving armigers with us, but no one else save my brother Stergos. Find him for me, Feri, before you undertake your other tasks, and send him to my private chambers. I must know how that damned sea-battle is going.”
The count’s saturnine face showed a flicker of irony. “I should think the Lady Ullanoth could give you a better account, using her superior sorcery.”
“So she could,” Conrig retorted grimly, “if I could only find her! The woman seems to have vanished.”
Conjure-King Beynor woke from his latest dream of pain just before noon. He lay motionless in his bed, hardly daring to believe that the agony inflicted by the Lights was temporarily in abeyance, savoring the small comforts of being horizontal, warm, and cradled in softness.
His eyes opened. Sunshine shone through the windows of his chambers. Through the open bedroom door he beheld the reassuring sight of the twin guardian Fortresses, glowing in the golden monstrance out in the sitting room. His hand groped for the two chains hanging about his neck: Subtle Armor and Shapechanger were there and safe, as was the Great Stone Weathermaker, which he kept always on his finger.
She had not stolen them while he slept.
Stolen sigils… and soot on the soles of his bare feet!
The memory returned like a crash of cymbals, the remarkable insight that had struck him as he lost consciousness the day before. With caution, he levered himself upright and lowered his feet to the floor, where fur-lined slippers waited. Still pain-free. Was he growing stronger, becoming inured to Weathermaker’s baneful side-effects?
The temperature of his room was still reasonably comfortable, but the fire was almost out. Good! His windsight showed only blackness inside the chimney. If the sigils taken by Ullanoth were concealed up there, they were buried in cinders and soot.
He slipped on a velvet robe and went to the hearth, where he easily quenched the last glowing peat coals with his talent. Nevertheless, he’d still be forced to wait a bit until the iron damper and the firebricks of the flue were cool enough to permit him to search.
He rang for breakfast, then poured some of Lady Zimroth’s nerve-stimulating elixir into an emerald-encrusted goblet and drank it down. Immediately, he felt energized and decided to discover what events had transpired while he slept. He put on a heavy fur coat, shut down the Fortresses, and went out onto his balcony to scry.
The day was clear and extremely cold, with a light northerly breeze. It was, he realized, Leap Day of the Boreal Moon—traditionally a portentous time for the island of High Blenholme, when significant things might be expected to happen… such as a victory at sea for the navy of Crown Prince Honigalus!
Closing his eyes and bracing himself against the stone wall, he sent his wind-sight soaring southward. And there it was: Copperstrand’s eight barques and eighteen frigates engaged in a desperate melee against forty Didionite men o‘ war, and clearly getting the worst of it. As Beynor watched, enthralled, fusillades of tarnblaze bombshells from three fast-moving enemy two-deckers raked the Cathran flagship, toppling its tall mainmast. A few moments later, the Conjure-King’s windsight was blinded by a spectacular silent explosion that virtually obliterated the crippled three-tier barque, beyond a doubt killing every soul aboard.
“Cathra’s whipped!” the delighted king whispered. He refocused his overview again and again from differing perspectives, watching the Cathran battle line break in three places. Some defending ships allowed themselves to be trapped between the island reefs and the onrushing foe and were being driven onto the rocks. Others, outmaneuvered by the more agile vessels commanded by Honigalus, had been devastated by tarnblaze and were sinking or being forced to surrender. At length, when the scene was almost entirely masked by clouds of smoke, two barques and three frigates flying Cathran colors burst out of the turmoil and fled westward toward Cala Bay. No Didionites followed.
Beynor cut off his scrying and excitedly bespoke Fring, the Crown Prince’s windvoice.
“Is the battle over? Has Honigalus won? I oversaw Cathran ships running away!”
The laconic reply was some minutes in coming. The fighting is not quite finished. But Didion is triumphant, King Beynor, beyond any doubt. Not a single ship of ours has been lost. Twelve of the foe have been sunk—including their flagship— five have surrendered, and five more have fled.
“Excellent! Convey my congratulations to Prince Honigalus. And ask him what he intends to do next.”
Again there was a delay. Then:
Didion’s battle losses are minor. Three of our great ships-of-the-line suffered consequential damage and will have to retire to Continental ports for repairs, taking our wounded with them. The rest of our war fleet will await the arrival of our allies, who are expected to bring provisions and fresh stocks of munitions. After the rendezvous and reinforcement, we will proceed to Cala Bay and bombard the Cathran capital of Cala. We will avenge Prince Heritor Conrig’s attack upon Holt Mallburn last night, the city’s fall to our enemies, and the sad demise of King Achardus and Queen Siry.
Hearing these tidings for the first time, Beynor felt his heart contract within his breast. So Conrig had mounted a successful land invasion in spite of all his efforts! But the situation was far from hopeless. Didion would never surrender while its new king lived and was poised to fall upon Cala. And the second son of Achardus, Prince Somarus, still headed a sizable army capable of retaking Holt Mallburn.
“Please convey my condolences to King Honigalus upon the death of his royal father and the queen. I can only presume the villain Conrig was abetted in his conquest by malign Beaconfolk sorcery. No commonplace magic could possibly have hidden his invading army from my scrutiny.”
So you say, Conjure-King…
Beynor winced at the windvoice’s cynical tone. But there was no way the Didionites could know for certain that Ullanoth and her sigils were assisting Conrig. Curse her! What would she do next? It was imperative that he track his sister down and devise some way to destroy her, perhaps using Weathermaker. Might it be possible to direct the Great Stone’s thunderbolt at her without knowing her precise location? Nothing in Rothbannon’s writings indicated that the sigil was capable of such a deed, but—
King Honigalus of Didion presents his compliments to the Conjure-King of Moss, and assures him of his continuing goodwill and deep regard. When the time is appropriate, please initiate a brisk wind out of the southeast to speed our Continental allies to us. Needless to say, these fair winds must be judiciously sustained to assure the final vanquishing of our mutual enemy.
The pitiless bastards! Would they never allow him a single day to recover?
Beynor managed to say, “When it’s convenient, I’ll consider the request of my esteemed fellow-monarch, Honigalus. Meanwhile, let him savor the triumph which I already helped him to achieve.”
In a smoldering fit of pique, he cut off the windspeech dialog with Fring and put all thought of the Didionite armada out of his mind. Let them wait for their bloody wind. He had more vital matters to consider.
Sweat beaded his brow and drenched his fur-swathed body. His earlier sense of well-being had totally evaporated, and he stood trembling in react
ion to the terrible news of Holt Mallburn’s fall and the sure knowledge that Ullanoth had brought it about.
“Shall I scry the city and learn the truth of what she’s done?” he asked himself aloud. “No. Better use Weathermaker against her without delay.”
He re-entered his chamber, shut the balcony doors, closed his eyes to shut out the brilliant sun, and forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, all the while trying to suppress the uneasiness that burgeoned within his breast.
“But what if I’m asking the Lights for the impossible? What might they do to me then? Father confessed that an arrogant demand made by Mother, using Destroyer, brought about her appalling death…”
Beynor heard a laugh. It was light, feminine, familiar.
Falling to his knees, he was almost paralyzed by a premonition of what was about to happen. Haltingly, he began to speak the spell reactivating the Fortresses.
Then he’d retreat behind Subtle Armor so that even her Sending would be powerless to harm him—
Beynor! I have something important to say to you.
As her voice came to him on the wind he uttered a mewling cry, like a fretful infant, and clapped his hands over his ears. “No, damn you! I won’t listen!”
But his sister bespoke his reeling mind, and he was helpless to ignore her.
Our own conflict is nearly over, Brother, and you are defeated. Think on it! There is now no place in the world where I may not reach you. Your Fortresses are no barrier to me. Even if you remain inside their spell of couverture, you still solidify my Sending, which you cannot harm because of Interpenetrator. Furthermore, I have empowered a new Great Stone named Subtle Loophole that now enables me to watch you, wherever you may hide, and also listen to every word you speak… True, you may shield yourself temporarily from my wrath by activating the Armor sigil— but its spell is no more than a prison. Enveloped within it, you are deprived of food and drink as well as all physical contact with the world around you. You cannot wear Subtle Armor for a single day, much less for the rest of your life.
“Go away,” he moaned. “Sky Father! Moon Mother! Have mercy!”
Her windvoice was kind. It is I who will have mercy on you, Little Brother, although you murdered our father and deserve none. If you hope to live, you must make public confession of your crime, atone for it, and relinquish the crown of Moss and all of your sigils to me.
“Never!” he screamed. “I’d rather die!”
I’ll give you a single day to consider the matter. No more. Farewell.
He lay in a heap, almost senseless, until a warm hand touched his brow and caused him to start up in a panic. But it was not Ullanoth’s terrible Sending standing beside him, only the grey-robed form of Lady Zimroth, the High Thaumaturge, who had his permission to penetrate the Fortresses. Her lined face was suffused with tender concern.
“Your Majesty! Oh, my poor dear boy, how can I help you? Did I not warn you against overuse of the Weathermaker stone? Is it the Lights who have stricken you?”
“Just… help me to a chair. I’ll be all right soon. The Lights haven’t harmed me.” He managed a feeble chuckle. “No more than they ever do. I was only overcome for a moment.”
She assisted him to his feet and led him to a seat by the dead fire. “Your chambers are freezing cold. I’ll call the slaves to stoke up a blaze—”
“No!” he said. “Not yet. But do give me a sip of your invigorating elixir, and then go and bid the kitchen hasten with some hot food.”
She poured the medicine and held it to his lips. When he had drunk it, she patted his shoulder. “Just sit quietly, dear. I’ll be back immediately.”
When she was gone, Beynor rose on unsteady legs and stepped into the ashes of the cavernous fireplace. He pushed the damper wide open and thrust his hand up into the filthy opening, scrabbling blindly.
A shelf, piled deep in soot!
He searched the mess, feeling from one side to the other and finding nothing. But then, almost out of reach back in the far left corner, his fingers touched a single small thing, smooth and hard and oddly shaped. Not the wand-shaped Destroyer, but…
He drew forth the Unknown Potency with a blackened hand and stared at it. Exerting his talent, he banished the soot to the ashbed, then stepped out of the fireplace and dropped into a nearby chair.
The twisted ribbon of moonstone gleamed clean in his upturned palm: the sure answer to all his prayers, if only he had the courage to make use of it.
“Snudge! Wake up!”
The boy groaned. Someone was shaking his shoulder, and none too gently. It was the prince, with the somber-faced Doctor Arcanorum at his side.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I worked for some time on the task you assigned me, but with no success. I’m afraid that I fell asleep.” He hauled himself into a sitting position, noting that the day was now far advanced. “All the same, I’m certain that she is somewhere close by.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We’d be well advised to keep that in mind.”
“Con, I told you so!” Stergos said.
The prince pretended not to understand. “No doubt she’s engaged in important business of her own. But we must hope that the lady reveals herself soon— for I’m heading back to Cathra immediately, sailing on a Stippenese vessel commandeered by Lord Skellhaven, and I’m counting upon the princess to supply us with the necessary fair winds.”
“Are you indeed!”
Both Snudge and Stergos uttered cries of alarm as Ullanoth—or was it her Sending?—abruptly became visible before them. Conrig took her hand and brushed the back of it with his lips, while giving every evidence of happy surprise.
“Welcome, my dear! And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all you have vouchsafed to me and my people. I had hoped to express my gratitude privately before this. Are you well?”
She nodded rather distantly. Snudge and the doctor she totally ignored, as though they were nothing but faithful dogs keeping the prince company. “I’m rested and almost recovered from the stress of empowering the Loophole and Weathermaker. There’s a bit of bother involving my brother Beynor, but it needn’t concern you at present. Tell me more about your plan to return to Cathra. I presume you intend to take personal charge of the defense of Cala City.”
“I must. Lord Admiral Copperstrand is dead. His deputy, Zednor Woodvale, concurred in the disastrous decision to split our fleet and shares responsibility for a disastrous defeat off the Vigilant Isles. God knows what Woodvale will do when Honigalus is reinforced by corsairs from the Continent. A windspoken message from King Olmigon has informed us that my father’s admonitions to the fleet officers are still being ignored.” He smiled grimly. “But they won’t ignore me.”
“The Continentals gathered in Nis-Gata have not yet left port,” she said. “Rumors have reached them from Andradh that a force of twenty strongly armed Tarnian frigates is coming to the aid of Cathra. Unfortunately, I know for a fact that the Tarnian ships are still delayed in the Western Ocean by bad weather generated by Beynor.”
“Can you do anything about it?”
“Perhaps,” she said, shrugging, “if my recovering strength is not exhausted by other difficult magical endeavors. You say you wish me to propel your ship southward at speed. This is no trivial request.”
“But a vitally important one, my lady! And I must leave at once. This evening. I hope you will accompany me and lend your good offices as I confront Honigalus—”
“This is not possible. My brother must be dealt with. Beynor poses a grave threat to all of us, and not only because of his continuing assistance to Didion. At the moment, I have him off balance and vulnerable, and I must press my advantage.”
An emotion that might have been relief touched the prince’s features. “But I need you at my side, lady!” he protested.
She made a quelling gesture. “I dare not take myself far away from Moss at this time. Not when the regaining of my stolen throne is within my grasp.” She came close to him and placed one hand on his
heart. “Conrig, I’ve vowed to assist your cause. I’ve already risked my life for you. Trust me.”
“Of course,” he said, embracing her. “As you must trust me.”
She lifted her face to be kissed, and after the chaste salute, whispered, “I love you, Con, and it breaks my heart that we must part, even for a brief time. But both of us have kingdoms to secure. My homeland must seem a poor place to you, compared to the grandeur of Cathra. But I will have it. I must have it! So I leave you now, but I shall grant you the magical winds you need—and return to you as soon as possible to guarantee your victory.”
“I understand,” he said, letting his arms fall and stepping away from her. He still smiled, but there was only emptiness in his eyes.
He does not love me, she realized.
Had she ever truly believed it? But neither did he love his barren wife. Perhaps he was one of those who are incapable of surrendering to another, as she once believed herself to be before her traitor heart betrayed her.
She asked herself: Does it matter?
That remained to be seen.
She turned, seeming to take notice of Vra-Stergos for the first time. “Doctor, perhaps you will be so kind as to bespeak me in two days or thereabouts, with news of Cathra’s struggle against Honigalus.”
“I will do my best to contact you, lady,” the alchymist replied anxiously, “but our ship will have traveled far to the south by then, and my talent may be insufficient to bridge the leagues.”
Her glance flickered toward Snudge. “Then perhaps you will have to seek help from others with more strength.”
She smiled at the startled look on the faces of the brothers, then vanished.
Chapter Thirty-One
The volcanos of Tarn belonged to the planetary realm, outside the dominion of the Beaconfolk and beyond their power to coerce.
For this reason the fire-mountains had been able to besmirch the northern sky with impunity, diminishing the Lights’ glory in the sight of lesser entities as well as affronting the dignity of the great beings themselves and making them peevish. Only in lowly Moss, where the talented human boy had deflected the clouds of ash with his sigil, had the aurora borealis shone on unimpeded.