Conqueror's Moon
“I thought the Sovereignty scheme was imprudent. So did many of my advisers. It was both risky and expensive—”
Ah! Now we come to the truth of the matter. The merchants and the great lords whose wealth depends upon them resisted any plan that would raise their taxes— especially during the Wolf’s Breath time, when their profits are already curtailed. Never mind that unifying the island would make it a stronghold against southern enemies. And do away with the wasteful small disputes among the four kingdoms that have cost both money and human lives over the past hundred years.
“All kings don’t have to be empire-builders.” Olmigon’s eyes were watering treacherously.
So. Would you have your son’s great dream of Sovereignty die with you? Do you intend to forbid the invasion?
“Not if it has a real chance of success. What do you take me for?”
Is that your one Question?
“No… no.”
Then ask it, old fool.
Olmigon wiped his eyes with a palsied hand and pulled himself upright in the chair. On impulse, he had revised his original elaborate query to one that was starkly simple. “All right, damn you! Here it is… Can my son Conrig succeed in uniting High Blenholme in a Sovereignty?”
There was a long silence.
“Well?” Olmigon said. “Are you going to answer? Are you real or only some bloody conjurer’s trick? Will Con be able to do it?”
Only if you rise from your deathbed to assist him, said Bazekoy’s head.
“What?” the king cried. “Are you toying with me? What do you mean?”
The Question is answered. Now leave me in peace, Olmigon Wincantor. If you have other questions, ask them of your son.
The emperor’s gleaming blue eyes closed.
The king gave a final bellow of impotent rage, then slumped back in mingled despair and puzzlement, tears coursing down his cheeks. The small silver handbell fell out of his hand and struck the floor with a sharp chime.
Chapter Nine
What the devil kind of answer was that?“ exclaimed Prince Conrig. ”Was the cursed thing mocking you?“
“I don’t know,” Olmigon replied wretchedly.
They were alone together in the royal bedchamber in Cala Palace. The cavalcade had arrived home around the eleventh hour, but the queen had refused to let Conrig visit his greatly weakened father until he had been put safely to bed. She would have forced the prince to wait until morning, but Olmigon would not take any sleep-inducing or painkilling medicine until he conferred with his son.
“Sire—you’re certain the head of Bazekoy was real?” Conrig could not hide his skepticism.
“No, I’m not sure!” croaked the king, in a feeble fury. “But the damned thing opened its eyes and looked at me, and its lips moved, and it had a snotty, over-familiar manner at odds with any fake the Brethren might have rigged up. It was no puppet, I tell you! And if it was a sorcerer’s illusion, why did it insult me and then answer the Question with such casual ambiguity? Surely the Brothers of Zeth would have wanted to placate me with some soppy reassurance, rather than drive me daft with a riddle.”
But the oracle couldn’t possibly be real, the prince told himself, feeling a pang of terrible presentiment. If it spoke true, then the great scheme’s attainment depended not on Conrig’s own meticulously planned strategy, but on this weak-willed, foolish old man who had already thwarted a bloodless victory over Didion.
“ ‘Only if you rise from your deathbed to assist him,’” Conrig quoted. “What do you think it means, sire? Are we supposed to take the reply at face value, or are the emperor’s words only a metaphor for impossibility?”
“I didn’t want to ask Abbas Noachil for his opinion, nor Kilian, either. The oracle’s answer is mine, Con—and yours! We must puzzle it out ourselves, king and king-to-be. It’s important. I’m certain of it.”
Conrig was silent, searching his father’s ravaged face as his own mind was racked by turmoil. He had come to the king’s bedchamber this night resolved to have his way at any cost—to persuade, to browbeat, to do whatever was necessary to prevent this dying man from frustrating his plans for the invasion. He’d expected the oracle’s message to be pretentious nonsense. But this…
“You’ve changed, sire,” the prince finally said. “And I don’t refer to your advancing illness. Always before you treated me like an unruly child, belittling my aspirations, only grudgingly accepting my recommendations in Privy Council even when you knew well enough they were sensible and practicable. You treated me as a gadfly, a bothersome nuisance, never as a future king.”
“Bazekoy said I was jealous of you,” Olmigon said. He refused to meet Con-rig’s eye. “Disappointed, rather! What joy have I ever had from my three sons? Stergos, my eldest, is ineligible for kingship because of arcane talent. My second-born, Tancoron, is a sweet-natured mental defective. And you—! Headstrong, insolently superior, aflame with crackbrained ambition, always convinced you’re right while I’m wrong.”
Conrig could not help but smile. “True enough.”
“Yet you were clearly born to some great destiny, as I was not.” The words were spat out, like sour bits of unripe fruit. “Jealous? Why shouldn’t I be jealous? Look at you—bursting with confidence, young and strong! And me… the hunting accident that broke my body when I was scarce four-and-twenty put an end to any hope I had of performing valorous deeds. All I had to look forward to was a legacy of pain. Some men overcome such ill fortune. I… couldn’t. Instead I chose to rely on the strength of others. Sometimes that was for the best. But there were times when I should have done things another way, even when my advisers opposed me. I know that now. You know it.”
“Yes.”
“I gave in too often. Wasn’t strong. And my choice of councilors… hasn’t always been sound.”
“You’ve never admitted that before.”
The king laughed bitterly. “Emperor Bazekoy considerately pointed it out to me—along with certain other shortcomings of mine. I pondered his words during the long trip home and hated him. Hated him! I told myself over and over that the oracle was a lying fraud. But it wasn’t, Con. It told the truth about me… and if it did, then we must believe that it also told the truth about the two of us. My kingship is ending and yours will soon begin, but the Sovereignty of Blenholme depends on you and me.”
Again there was silence, except for the old man’s labored breathing. His eyes were misty. “Is it too late to make it up between us? Bazekoy didn’t seem to think so.” With an effort, the king composed himself. “Can’t we decide together what’s to be done about the immediate dangers facing our island?”
“Perhaps we can try,” Conrig said slowly. He sat in a chair at the king’s bedside, large hands resting easily on his black-clad knees, a man both resolute and cold of heart, as both of them knew.
The king said, “You mustn’t castigate Odon Falmire for breaking your confidence and informing me about your council of war. The chancellor’s a loyal friend to both of us. When he heard that the Tarnian healer had given me only a short time to live, he felt it his duty to let me know what you were up to. It was necessary that Vra-Kilian know of it also, because I needed to have him wind-speak you. But I adjured him to secrecy with a solemn oath. No one else on the Privy Council knows that you plan to make war on Didion. But I suppose we must tell them now.”
“I’ve summoned the councilors to an extraordinary session tonight,” the prince said. “I intend to tell them that a defensive war is in the offing, intended to repulse starving hordes from Didion who might attempt to cross Great Pass before winter snows close it down.”
“You summoned my Council!” Olmigon’s eyes widened in affronted disbelief. Conrig had usurped a royal prerogative.
“Yes.” The prince took from his doublet the writ, signed by the king, forbidding him from taking action against Didion. “You must understand, sire, that any discussion of ours concerning the dangers facing the kingdom will in no way be influenced by
this.”
At the king’s bedside was a nightstand holding a lit candlabrum and a silver tray with vials of medicine and a flagon of water. Conrig cleared the tray, then touched the corner of the vellum document to one of the candleflames.
Olmigon cried out.
The prince held up the burning parchment. “Shall I quench it?”
The king hesitated only for a moment before turning his head away. “No. Let it burn.”
Conrig dropped the flaming writ onto the tray, nodding in satisfaction. “If I reveal my plans to you, it must be on condition that you leave to my judgment how much will be told to the Privy Council. I don’t intend to debate the matter with them—or with you.”
“I understand,” the king muttered. “I trust you to do what’s best. Only tell me what I must keep secret.”
“Everything that I say about the council of war. You must reveal the details to no one—not even to Mother. Swear it on your crown.”
“I do,” Olmigon whispered. “I do swear.” He did not mention that the queen had helped him to draft the writ, and that they had both talked with Princess Maudrayne about the possibility of war with Didion on the return journey from Zeth. He took a linen handkerchief from the sleeve of his nightgown and held it to his mouth. “Take care how you speak. Vra-Kilian may be windwatching us. He lip-reads poorly, I’m told, but no use taking chances.”
“Well said.” The prince leaned toward the king, his hand hiding the lower part of his face. “The northern peers, including Beorbrook and Vanguard and Ramscrest and the Virago of Marley, are pledged to support an invasion of Didion under my leadership.”
“Invasion…” The king’s eyes widened.
“They’re mustering their forces now, some five hundred knights and fighting men, all well-mounted and lightly armored for speed. The underlings believe we’ll gather at Great Pass at the end of the Boreal Moon to repel incursions from Didion. In actuality, the army will gather at Castle Vanguard. I intend to attack Holt Mallburn in a lightning thrust over Breakneck Pass.”
“Good God—but you can’t mean it! Breakneck Pass? The late autumn storms—”
“I have a talented ally who guarantees not only clement weather but also an all-concealing fog that will let us take the enemy by surprise. Princess Ullanoth of Moss is Cathra’s secret collaborator in this war. She’s promised her arcane help in exchange for my support of her claim to the throne of Moss, First Vassal status in the Sovereignty, plus a sodding great pile of money.”
Olmigon gaped, in blank astonishment. “A sorceress abetting your army? You’d trust a perfidious Mosslander?”
“She has a bitter rivalry with her younger brother Beynor, who now stands to become Conjure-King as Linndal’s favorite. The lady has nothing to gain by dealing with us falsely. Many of the northern lords were aghast at the idea of an alliance with her, as you are. But after thinking the matter over, they saw the plan’s wisdom. You must not oppose me in this, sire.” Conrig took hold of the king’s free hand, and his grip tightened to the point of pain. “I won’t be dissuaded. Not by you, nor by any supposed words of Emperor Bazekoy, nor by God himself.”
Olmigon stiffened, seeing in his son’s eyes a thing that made his soul quake. “My son, I’ve told you that I trust you. But you must also trust me. I think I know what you intended to do when you came to me tonight, believing I’d oppose you. I won’t oppose you! But not because I’m afraid.”
The prince released the king’s hand and the two of them stared wordlessly at one another.
“You should be afraid,” Conrig finally said. “But you need not be. Not now. Bazekoy has performed some sort of miracle after all.”
The old man gave vent to a sudden bark of laughter, dropping the handkerchief from his mouth and starting up from the pillows with a surge of febrile energy. “Then do it, Con! Crush that viper Achardus Mallburn, undoing my stupidity and my shame!”
“I will… Father.”
Tension flowed palpably from Olmigon’s body, leaving him relaxed. “I bless your enterprise, my son. Only let me know how I can help you. God knows how Bazekoy’s oracle will be fulfilled, but if a way presents itself, I swear I’ll take it before breathing my last, no matter what the cost.”
“There is something you can do now, if you’re able.” Once again Conrig covered his mouth with his hand. “While I was at Castle Vanguard, I learned that Honigalus and Somarus of Didion had sailed to the Continent along with Prince Beynor of Moss, seeking a strategic alliance with the southern nations. During the past weeks, as I awaited your return, I obtained additional information: The two Didionite princes suspect we intend to invade their homeland, but they don’t know when, or the route we plan to take. They have apparently persuaded tippen and Foraile to strike at Cala from the sea, should I attack their country by land. Andradh has thus far declined to join the alliance, but it may do so in the future.”
“My premonition! I knew something dire was in the wind! Is your intelligence reliable?”
“Princess Ullanoth bespoke Stergos three days ago, informing him what she had discovered through her arcane arts. We must recall all of our fighting ships from the blockade immediately and mass them in defense of the capital. I tried to convince Lord Admiral Dundry to abandon the blockade as soon as I learned of the danger, but the fool refused to listen to me. Of course, I could not tell him that my knowledge came from Ullanoth.”
“Give me writing materials! The palace alchymists must bespeak every ship’s windvoice tonight. We’ll issue a joint order. That’ll bolster your authority, too, if we’re seen to act in concert.”
Conrig went to a nearby table for a writing tray, pen, ink, vellum, and the Royal Seal. Everything was at hand, since the ailing king had for months been accustomed to deal with everyday matters of state from within his private chambers.
“Tomorrow,” the prince said, after the new writ had been signed and sealed by both of them, “you must confer with naval officers that you trust and decide how the defensive armada might best be arrayed. Unlike yourself, I have little experience in sea warfare.”
“Ah, the sea! You can’t know me as I was in those early days of my realm, Con.” A crooked grin of recollection. “The Battle of the Stormy Isles… my first triumph, so long ago! The Wave-Harriers of Andradh thought they’d take advantage of a callow boy-king, newly crowned, playing at wargames with a small portion of his fleet in the Western Ocean. They would have seized me and held me for a devastating ransom—but I licked the poxy lobscousers and sent them off with burnt rigging and splintered bulwarks! Andradh was a laughing stock for ten years thereafter.” He began to chuckle feebly, but the action renewed his pain, and he broke off with a moan.
“You must sleep soon, Father. But something else needs saying. In my opinion, Lord Admiral Dundry is incompetent to command our navy. His blockade tactics have failed miserably, and he’s too old and arrogant to accept advice from wiser heads. You must replace him with Elo Copperstrand or Count Woodvale’s son, Zednor.”
“Dundry has powerful friends among the merchants and commands the loyalty of many captains. But I’ll find a way to do as you wish.” He considered for a moment. “I think we must also hire a squadron of mercenary frigates from Tarn. They can get here from Goodfortune Bay in a week or less if the winds are favorable. We have too few speedy warships, and such might be crucial if the Continentals attack. The hirelings can bring us additional stocks of tarnblaze as well. I’ll ask the Tarnian shaman, Red Ansel, to windspeak his countrymen. He’ll convince them to come.“
“Excellent!” Conrig said heartily. “I would never have thought of that.” His expression darkened. “There is one more urgent request I must make—concerning the Royal Alchymist.” He told the king of his suspicions, and what he felt was now necessary. “It will require another writ, of course.”
“I’ll do it,” the king grumbled, scribbling away, “and trust your judgment on the matter. But it’ll put the cat among the pigeons, be sure of it.”
“I’ll take care of the cat. Don’t be concerned.” Conrig helped his father with the wax seal, then removed the writing tray and tucked the folded pieces of vellum into his belt-wallet.
Olmigon gave him a tremulous smile. “We’ll talk more of these matters tomorrow. But send your mother in now. No others, only she. I must tell her of our reconciliation. It will gladden her heart. And you yourself must give the tidings to Maudrayne. Without the good offices of the Tarnian healer that the dear girl summoned, I think we would not have had this conversation tonight. Certainly, I would never have thought to go to Emperor Bazekoy in time, had Red Ansel not told me that my life was surely drawing to an end.”
Conrig leaned down and kissed his father’s forehead, saying, “Remember: you must not tell Mother anything about my plans. Kilian would be sure to wangle the information from her somehow.”
“Yes, yes. But send her to me now.”
“Very well, Father.”
The wrinkled eyelids were closing, and the king’s lips were slightly open, breathing some final words that Conrig was unable to understand. The prince stood looking down at the helpless old man for a moment.
Could I have done it, he asked himself, if he had forbidden the invasion?
But he knew the answer.
Conrig left the bedchamber. Queen Cataldise was waiting patiently outside, together with the Royal Alchymist, several medical attendants and bodyservants, and four members of the Palace Guard.
“Mother.” He bowed to her and smiled. “The King’s Grace wishes you to attend him briefly before he sleeps, to share with you the good tidings that he and I have reconciled our differences and are now in loving accord.”
“Oh, Con!” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she embraced him. “I’m so very glad.”
The Royal Alchymist insinuated himself forward confidently, presuming to take the elbow of Cataldise and guide her toward the bedchamber door. “I would also like to look in on His Grace, to see to his bodily needs.”