Page 20 of Conqueror's Moon


  So is your neck, my friend. Find a way to take the sigils and the Salkan magical books with you, but forget the rest. Slip away from the palace immediately. Conrig and his cohorts may not act against you at once because of your high position and august lineage—but act they will. Be assured of it.

  “You—you are able to visualize this dire outcome through your sorcery?”

  Silly old fool! I don’t need magic to read your future. Do as I tell you, or go to hell!

  “Prince Beynor, I must protest. I’m willing to make allowances for your youth and impatience, but you have no call to speak to me so disrespectfully. I demand an apology.”

  I am not a prince any longer, Vra-Kilian, but Conjure-King of Moss according to the decree of my late father. And kings apologize to no one. Farewell.

  Kilian listened, but the windthread had been severed.

  “Damnation,” he said. “So it all comes tumbling down. I thought I might have a bit more time.”

  He felt anger and he felt fear, but both of these useless emotions were readily quashed by his invincible will. He was Kilian Blackhorse, the most powerful member of a great family, archwizard of the realm, the royal counselor who had controlled a king like a doll on a string. He had faced challenges before and conquered them. He’d find a way to prevail this time as well.

  He realized that it was too late for him to flee. His betrayal by the boy Deveron would soon be an accomplished fact. If he, Kilian, disappeared, the palace guard would simply raise a hue and cry throughout the city. Even if he did manage to coerce or bribe some ocean-going skipper to carry him to Moss, there was nothing to prevent Prince Conrig from sending a fast naval frigate after him. A pursuing warship could easily stay out of range of his defensive magic and bombard his own vessel with tarnblaze. And that diabolical stuff could not be deflected with ordinary magic.

  Why hadn’t Beynor windspoken the bad tidings earlier, when escape might have been possible? The question had no answer, but Kilian was sure that the last thing the newly minted Conjure-King would want was for the secret trove of moonstones to fall into Conrig’s hands. Conrig: in league with the sister Beynor hated more than anyone alive! No, the young sorcerer was still Kilian’s ally, at least until he got his hands on Darasilo’s moonstones.

  What to do? The sigils had to be hidden at once, in a place where no adept— especially one loyal to Beynor—could ever find them.

  … Yes, of course!

  Shivering in the chill, Vra-Kilian left his bed, put on fur-lined house shoes and a heavy robe, threw billets of wood on the dead ashes in the fireplace, and conjured a brisk blaze with his talent. Outside the windows of his bedchamber, dawn already brightened the sky, and he could see lamps moving in the corridors of the opposite wing of the palace. Servants were up and about, carrying cans of hot water for morning ablutions, bringing baskets of fuel to be left outside the chambers of the nobles, lighting braziers and lamps in the common rooms. Before long kitchen boys would tote trays of breakfast to the fortunate. Valets, ladies’ maids, messengers, and courtiers of every stripe would be bustling in all directions as Cala Palace came fully awake with the rising sun.

  I know what must be done, Vra-Kilian told himself, as he made his way to his sitting room. But first, the safety measures. It would be a disaster if Prince Con-rig’s men burst in before he was ready.

  He checked the tripod and the carved malachite charm that generated the spell of couverture around his private chambers. He had installed it before going to sleep, and it was still functioning properly. No ordinary adept could possibly windwatch him through its shield. Please, God—that included the accursed Deveron Austrey!

  So that left the barricade against physical incursion to be erected. He fetched a certain flask from a locked cabinet, let five drops of sizzling liquid fall into a stoneware dish where they formed an evil-smelling puddle, and pronounced a complex incantation.

  Foom!

  The flash was dazzling, and the smoke cleared in a moment. Now the walls and doors of his private rooms were sealed, impervious to all but the most advanced sorcery or superior siege engines. He’d left the chimney flues unconjured for obvious reasons, as well as the drafty windows. Many an incautious wizard had smothered himself by neglecting the elementary laws of natural science! The flooring was also left unprotected by magic, but for a very different reason.

  I’m hungry, he realized. Well, there was probably enough time to eat, and who knew when he’d get his next meal?

  He kindled a larger fire in the sitting room and sat down at the table in front of it, where the food he’d had no appetite for last night still waited: spicy finger sausages, two kinds of fine cheese, bread rolls, crocks of bilberry conserve and butter, a silver ewer of mead. As he ate and considered the situation, he felt confident that his life was in no immediate danger—at least, not from the King’s Justice. Young Beynor didn’t understand how Cathran law worked. No one could prove treason against him. Banishment at the royal pleasure, however, was a very real possibility. He would suffer a galling comedown after having been the shadow-ruler of Cathra for nearly twenty years, but at least his life and dignity would remain intact. And the future always beckoned.

  However, mending his devastated fortunes would be impossible without the moonstones and the books. Lacking them, he might as well be dead. With them— and with the grudging assistance of the Conjure-King of Moss—he would eventually recover all that was about to be lost. And much more.

  Vra-Kilian finished his meal and assembled the necessary tools, then unlocked and entered his violated inner sanctum. The room was very dark and he lit a candelabrum. The iron-bound small cabinet still stood with its door open, as he’d left it, and the sigils were on the worktable. For a lingering moment he fingered the cool stones in their baskets—so wonder-working, if only they were alive! And the books, the other secret legacy of the imprudent Darasilo— once tantalizing Kilian with their inaccessible learning, but perhaps soon susceptible to decryption.

  He put the things away, closed and locked the cabinet, then took four small quartz crystals from a blue velvet bag and placed them in a precise square on the container’s top. The bag also yielded a larger prism of quartz, longer than his index finger. He pointed it at the cabinet and said, “Rise!”

  The heavy oaken safe-box lifted from the floor and hovered a few inches above it.

  “Follow,” Vra-Kilian commanded, gesturing with the long prism. He left the sanctum and went to his bedroom, with the ensorcelled cabinet floating obediently behind. Once there he attacked his bed, tossing pillows aside, tearing off coverlets, feather-tick, and linen, finally hauling the mattress off the undernet and shoving it out of the way. He knelt and swiftly began to untie each leather thong from its hole in the massive bedframe, muttering knot-abolishing spells as he worked. When three sides were free, he lifted the netting and laid it carefully to one side.

  The space beneath the bed was clean; his manservant knew better than to let dust accumulate on the floor. Vra-Kilian knelt, peered closely at the wooden parquet-blocks for a moment, extended his arms, and simultaneously pressed two blocks spaced almost four feet apart. The bits of wood seemed identical to the others except for two minute protuberances, but as the wizard depressed them there was a loud clack. A section of the floor began to sink, hinged like a trapdoor, revealing an opening and a flight of stone steps.

  They led to a musty crypt that held two roughly hewn tombs—one containing the skeleton of a woman, the other the remains of a small child. The names JOVALA and CHALLO were chiseled crudely on the lids, and on the wall above them was the date C.Y. 413. Vra-Kilian suspected that the long-dead Darasilo had something to do with the tomb occupants. After all, they had been interred beneath chambers that had traditionally belonged to the Royal Alchymists of Cathra since a century after Bazekoy’s conquest. The existence of the crypt was another of the secrets passed on to him by his late predecessor. Kilian had never thought to make use of it before, but now it seemed prede
stined by some higher power to be the perfect hiding place for the sigils and books, until he should find a way to retrieve them.

  He pointed the quartz prism at the cabinet and said, “Follow.”

  It hopped the bedframe and wafted down into the hole in the floor, dogging his footsteps. He led it behind the tombs, retrieved the four small quartz crystals from its top, then went up and closed the crypt’s trapdoor.

  By the time he had restored his bed to its former state, he felt exhausted and irritated. There was brandy in the sitting room, so he decided to return there and sit by the fire to await the inevitable. But first he abolished the enchantment that protected his rooms from assault. He kept the windwatching shield in place. They’d think it odd if he left himself completely vulnerable.

  He settled back in the soft chair. Outside, the palace chimes sounded the seventh hour of morning.

  There’d be a trial, of course. But what could Conrig really prove? The sigils and the forbidden tomes were safely hidden now, impossible to windwatch. It was Kilian’s word against that of an upstart former servant-boy that the things existed at all, and the little book could be explained away.

  For treason, the evidence was even flimsier. No one could prove he’d intercepted and read the letter from Conrig to Duke Tanaby that convened the council of war. No one—save possibly the wretched Deveron—could connect him to Beynor of Moss and the sorcerer-spy slain at Castle Vanguard. Would a tribunal of Royal Justices deign to accept the hearsay evidence of a wild talent, even one employed by Prince Conrig? Would Conrig even permit his secret snudge to testify, knowing that thereby his anonymity would be lost and his value forfeit?

  No.

  But there was another peril Kilian might not be able to evade. False witnesses, alas, were always procurable. Kilian had used them himself to dispose of certain enemies. But even if he were found guilty, his loving sister, Queen Cataldise, would never permit the Royal Executioner to lop off his head. He would whisper to her the penalty he had decided would best suit his purpose: confinement in Zeth Abbey at the king’s pleasure.

  Zeth Abbey, so close to the Didionite frontier.

  Zeth Abbey, whose ruler, Abbas Noachil, was in his ninety-first year of life.

  Zeth Abbey, where so many of his loyal old comrades still lived and worked, numbers of them the beneficiaries of his personal generosity.

  For the first time on that disastrous morning, Vra-Kilian smiled. His eyes closed and in another moment he was fast asleep, and remained so until he heard a loud pounding on his door.

  He rose, unlocked it, and pulled it wide open. Vra-Stergos stood there white-faced, holding high a golden reliquary that held one of Emperor Bazekoy’s blue pearls. Behind him knelt three ranks of red-robed Brethren with arms folded on their breasts.

  Stergos intoned: “All harmful spells avaunt!”

  There was a bright flash and a sound of clumping mailed feet. When Kilian’s bedazzled vision cleared, he saw that Conrig’s ten Heart Companions had taken a stand in front of the magickers. They wore full armor, and their two-handed broadswords were pointed straight at him.

  “Good morning,” said the Royal Alchymist, nodding austerely. He was now helpless to attack the others with magic.

  Prince Conrig stepped forward, unarmored, hatless, and wearing his usual black clothing. His sword was sheathed. “Vra-Kilian Blackhorse, you are under arrest. The charge—for the moment—is disrupting the King’s Peace.” He proffered the warrant.

  The wizard began to laugh. “Well, that’ll serve your purpose tidily enough! Do you intend to lock me in fetters?”

  “No,” said Conrig, beckoning to one of the Brothers, who held a small wooden box. He opened it and took out a perforated piece of iron, like a bit of unsharpened knife-blade hung on a string. The voided cross of Saint Zeth’s gammadion had been scratched on it. It was a crude replica of the gold amulet worn by every member of the Mystical Order, including Vra-Kilian. At the sight of the thing, the Royal Alchymist tensed.

  “You know what this is,” Conrig said, holding it out. “Take off your own gammadion and replace it with this, or we will slay you as you stand there.”

  Kilian obeyed. As the iron touched his breast, a red radiance flared from it. He groaned, staggered, and would have collapsed if Count Sividian and Count Feribor had not stepped forward to support him.

  “You are now bound to your Order’s will,” Conrig said, “and your talent quenched until it pleases Abbas Noachil to restore it. We take you into custody with his permission. Now give me the keys to your chambers.”

  With some difficulty, Kilian detached them from his belt and handed them over. “These… will open everything within. Search without fear. I have prepared no magical man-traps.”

  “We’ll make certain of that.” Conrig turned to the knights. “Bring the former Royal Alchymist to the council chamber, and his three cronies as well. I’ll follow as soon as Vra-Stergos and I perform a quick search of his rooms.”

  Sividian and Feribor still held Kilian’s arms. He suffered them to lead him through the library, flanked by the other Companions, past the ranks of wide-eyed Brethren. Kilian noted that poor Butterball, Squinty, and Vinegar-Face were already in the custody of the Palace Guard. Well, he’d see that they joined him in exile.

  Count Sividian stepped ahead to unlock and inspect the room where the three of them would wait until summoned, leaving Feribor alone at Kilian’s side. He asked softly, “Nephew, am I to be put on trial at once?”

  A sardonic smile. “I believe so, Uncle. The King’s Grace has himself summoned the tribunal, and he will preside. You will be allowed a single advocate to help plead your case. Perhaps you might think on whom we might summon, as we await our summons to the council chamber.”

  Vra-Kilian smiled. “Oh, I’ve decided that already.” He regarded Feribor Blackhorse with new interest. Unlike his indolent elder brother, he was a valiant warrior and a man of action. He was as yet unmarried; too many potential brides knew his reputation. He was not a man to be easily beguiled, but one who was reputedly ambitious and single-minded.

  He might just do.

  “Nephew,” the alchymist said in a low voice, “after many years of wielding power, I am about to go into eclipse. These things happen to the best of us. But the day will come when my sun shines again, and when it does, I’ll be in a position to reward those who are my friends. Reward them most generously.”

  Feribor said, “I’ll not help you escape. Such is impossible.”

  “I’m aware of that. I intend to call upon my friends some time in the future. Perhaps several years from now. Maybe I count upon you?”

  The young man shrugged in disdain. “Probably not. I don’t need gold, Uncle.”

  “Neither do I offer it,” said Vra-Kilian. “But what would you say to the throne of Cathra?”

  Feribor stared at him, his face without expression. He said nothing.

  “In time, it may be yours,” said the wizard. “Listen carefully, for we have little time. The first thing you should know is that Conrig’s new armiger, Deveron Austrey, is a strong wild talent…”

  Chapter Sixteen

  When the tumultuous day ended, and Kilian and his henchmen had been sent on their way to Zeth Abbey in a prison-coach guarded by a detachment of the Palace Guard and three highly talented Brethren vouched for by Stergos, Conrig sequestered himself in his own apartment. Attended only by Lord Telifar, the prince ate a small supper then dismissed the lord-in-waiting and occupied himself reading the replies to the urgent letters sent out that morning. Earlier, Red Ansel had reported that Tarnian mercenary sealords would come to Cathra’s defense only if they were paid in corn, not gold, so Conrig had had the royal scribes draft appeals to Cala’s grain merchants and shipowners.

  The responses were predictably bleak.

  With profound regret, the merchants informed the Crown that they were unable to donate wheat and barley from their reserve stores. What little grain they had was already promise
d to certain high-ranking lords of Cathra (at a pretty price, quoted in the letters), and surely the prospects of an imminent attack from the south were vanishingly small and no mercenaries were needed. Why, Lord Admiral Dundry had said so himself!

  In a similarly apologetic fashion, the shipowners told the Crown that even though they would gladly cooperate, no Cathran master mariner would be willing to set sail for Tarn at the present time, since the season of storms was due to strike the Western Ocean any day now. Several of the letters gave assurance that the weather would certainly keep Continental invaders in port as well. Besides, Lord Admiral Dundry had declared that there was no evidence that the southern nations were contemplating a sea war.

  Conrig muttered imprecations under his breath. The damned trader-lords were confident they could ignore his appeals to patriotism with impunity. There was no helping it: he’d have to pay the inflated reserve price for the grain and do whatever was necessary to hire ships to carry it.

  He worked for nearly an hour, drafting responses to the least venal-appearing of the prospects, inviting them to confer with him at the palace. Then there came a scratching at his door. He hastened to throw it open, expecting Snudge. But it was his wife, Princess Maudrayne.

  “My lord husband,” she said by way of greeting, and sailed into the room as boldly as always. He had not yet bade her welcome home, since she had kept to her chambers during the day’s commotion.

  Conrig nodded graciously to her. “My lady, I trust you’ve begun to recover from the rigors of the pilgrimage. I apologize for not presenting myself to you earlier. As you probably know, there’s been hell to pay. This morning I received evidence that Vra-Kilian was guilty of treason—”

  “The Queen’s Grace told me everything. Including the fact that suborned witnesses testified against the Royal Alchymist and his associates. She also said that it was only through her personal plea for clemency that Kilian was banished rather than having his head chopped off. The poor woman was beside herself when she told me the story, but I have the impression that she bore up rather stoutly while bargaining for her brother’s life.”