Beynor had been a child of five when it happened. He only remembered his mother as a remote and beautiful woman with burning eyes and a braid of fair hair coiled at the base of her neck, who never had time to cuddle him or play magical games as dear old Lady Zimroth did. The death of the Conjure-Queen hadn’t saddened the little prince much. He’d been rather glad that his big sister Ullanoth was so prostrate with grief that she forgot about tormenting him during the months that followed.
Father, on the other hand, during his interludes of sanity, seemed to discover for the first time that he had a son…
Beynor replaced Destroyer and picked up the Unknown Potency, the sigil neither the Salka nor Rothbannon had dared to empower.
Might it combine the powers of all the other sigils into one? Would it convert dross into gold? Would it make its owner supremely intelligent? Might it change the dreary clime of Moss into paradise, or cause all enemies to bend servile necks to the wielder’s foot? Could it grant any wish—-transforming that she-demon Ullanoth into a tiny swamp vole he might drown in a slop bucket? Or was its magical action so rarefied and esoteric that only some scholarly armchair-thaumaturge would find any use for it?
The only way one could find out was to activate the Unknown Potency and beg the Great Lights to explain how it worked. After enduring the terrible pain of the empowerment, he’d have to risk his life and mind questioning the capricious sky-beings, who might only respond with riddles, or even torture him to death because of some fancied insult.
He put the Unknown back into its place.
In his frustration, Beynor cursed Deveron Austrey for depriving him of the small magical book that might have helped with the difficult decision. The Guild’s library had plenty of information about the lesser sigils, but almost nothing concerning the safe operation of the Great Stones. Sweat trickled from his scalp as his hand hovered again over the small, deceptively simple-looking wand named Destroyer. It was the undeniable instrument of triumph, but one that might also provoke the wrath of the Beaconfolk in some unimaginably horrible fashion.
“What shall I do?” he whispered. “Activate Destroyer and risk my mother’s fate? Or defy logic and common sense and empower the Unknown Potency itself?”
With time running out before he must greet his royal guests, he knew at last that he was going to do nothing. Along with the realization, a vast sense of relief welled up in him.
“I won’t bring either Great Stone to life,” he said to himself. “But not because I’m afraid. I’m a prudent man, one who doesn’t take unnecessary risks. If I choose not to empower one of these sigils now, it’s no discredit to me. I’m only exercising discretion, as a mature man should. Who knows what I’ll do in the future, when my situation changes?”
But the great predicament remained: Ullanoth barricaded in her tower, capable of anything.
If only he had more time! But he did not, and the truth of the matter was plain enough. There was no one to help and advise him: not his dead father, not the Guild officials, not impotent Kilian nor his mysterious aunt nor even the Salka. Beynor ash Linndal, Conjure-King of Moss, was alone on his throne, with no one but himself to rely on.
Abruptly, he began to laugh. He snatched Weathermaker from its nest, fitted it on his finger, then slammed shut the platinum case.
“I don’t need advice on choosing a new sigil!” Beynor cried aloud. The softly shining moonstone ring seemed to gleam more brightly in anticipation. “The stones I have already are sufficient for my needs—and I’ve just thought of how to use this one to finish off Ulla in fine style. And if the Diddly barbarians don’t appreciate my trick, then futter ‘em for having no sense of humor!”
Still giggling, he hung the sigils named Subtle Armor and Shapechanger around his neck by their golden chains, then began to put on the gem-encrusted garments and jewels laid out by his servitors for the welcoming festivities. When he’d finished dressing, his young frame was oppressively weighted down by the ceremonial regalia, so for the first time he decided he would not carry the additional burden of the heavy platinum case with its two inactive stones. They would be perfectly safe left in his bedchamber, guarded by the indomitable sigil named Fortress.
“So your nerve did fail you at the end, little brother. And now, thanks be to the compassionate Moon Mother, I’ll live to bring you down!”
Ullanoth momentarily relinquished the sigil named Subtle Loophole with a sigh of relief, pressing her fingers to her throbbing temples. Five days earlier she had empowered the second of her Great Stones in order to spy on Beynor while he hid behind Fortress. An open triangle with a small handle attached, through which one peered, Loophole was capable of giving her a vision—with all sounds attending, as windsight could not—of anything or anyone, even those protected by the most powerful magic. The only things safe from its oversight were sigils, alive or dead. But in Beynor’s case, this mattered not. His own actions and his solitary mutterings had betrayed his fear of empowering another Great Stone.
Activating her own new sigil had sent Ullanoth reeling to her bed, afflicted by hideous dreams and an agony so unbearable she feared she would die of it. But she lived, and little by little the pain of empowerment abated, until on the third day she was able to rise and steal food, having become invisible, and begin her close surveillance of Beynor.
Ullanoth knew instinctively that either Destroyer or the Unknown Potency would be able to seek her out and obliterate her, wherever she tried to hide, so on each subsequent day of her recovery she watched her brother through the Loophole and listened to his fevered soliloquies until she could no longer stand the pain caused by the vision.
Today, with her strength almost restored, she had observed Beynor’s final vacillations, praying that he would be too spineless to empower either stone. That prayer had been answered.
Having rested briefly, she lifted Loophole to her eye again, and saw—
Oh, compassionate Moon Mother! Look what that young booby was doing!
If only she could act in time.
Beynor clearly intended to leave the platinum case, with the inactive Great Stones, behind in his rooms. Even now she saw him moving toward the outer door of his sitting room. Could she use his own natural talent, with him all unaware, to solidify her Sending?
She seized the sigils named Sender and Concealer from her purse, hung them about her neck on their chains, and ran to her slanted couch. A few moments later, after the brief explosion of pain that accompanied the speaking of the spell, she stood in her brother’s bedchamber, invisible, hearing the outer door slam behind the departing Conjure-King.
It had worked! His Fortress still glowed serenely, no barrier at all to a Sending. She opened the case and removed Destroyer and the Unknown Potency from their velvet nests.
But now what?
A Sending could carry things held or worn by the original body to its destination. It could not bring any new object back nor leave anything behind.
“I don’t want the awful things, anyway,” she said aloud. “It’s enough that he be deprived of them.”
She went to the ornate fireplace, unlit on this warm day, set the little moonstone carvings on the hearth, and picked up an iron poker in her invisible hand. Inactive, the sigils were mere pieces of mineral that could be battered to bits with impunity; empowered, the tiny wand called Destroyer was an appalling weapon, while the amazingly delicate twisted figure eight of the Unknown Potency was… who knew what?
Ullanoth hesitated. Some day, her hated brother would be gone from Royal Fenguard and she would be Conjure-Queen. Her mother had assured her of it. Like her ancestor Rothbannon, she intended to become a scholar of sorcery; but unlike him, she would have at her disposal all the arcane libraries of High Blenholme Island—most especially those rare tomes at Zeth Abbey so jealously sequestered by the Brethren. She’d compel Conrig to give her access to them, and perhaps—just perhaps—
Why not?
Destroyer, she felt, was too dangerous to play ga
mes with; but she lifted the Unknown, stepped into the cold fireplace, reached up the chimney, and pushed the damper-plate full open. Beyond it, up the flue, was a shelflike projection having a thick accumulation of ash and soot. The castle chimneys had not been cleaned in years. She pushed the little moonstone carving into the far corner of the shelf, burying it in the powdery stuff.
With luck, it would be waiting for her when she was ready to study it.
When she emerged from the fireplace, she was amused to discover that her dirtied hand was visible as a disembodied black wraith. Well, she’d lose the mess when she sent herself home…
The poker made short work of Destroyer. When the deadly wand was reduced to grit, she carefully swept all traces of it into the ashpit.
Then she Sent herself back to her own tower, leaving behind only a light sprinkling of soot on the bearskin carpet in front of the hearth—too fine to be seen but still capable of soiling the bare feet of anyone who chanced to step in it.
Ullanoth returned to her own tower none too soon, for a quick glance out the window showed her that the Didionite royal flagship and its four escorting men o‘ war were already approaching their mooring out in the estuary. She would have to step lively in order to meet the arriving royals at the waterfront.
And leave forever this place that had been her refuge for so long.
Urgent necessity gave her fresh energy. She speedily donned her disguise, then stepped in front of the long mirror and admired her reflection for a moment. She did not intend to travel invisible all of the time, so she had assumed the aspect of a hunchbacked crone—a role suitable for the drama she had planned for the entertainment of Beynor and the Didionities. Her gown was tattered and patched and splotched about the hem with dried mud—but for all its poor appearance it was made of sturdy new wool that would keep her comfortable in bad weather. Her boots were grubby but stoutly made. She had greased and dirtied her shining hair to resemble the stringy grey elflocks of neglectful old age, and used herbal dyes to make her face hideous. The judiciously selected necessities prepared for her flight barely filled the leather fardel that would rest comfortably on her upper back beneath her hooded cloak, stained and raggedy but fashioned of heavy, water-repellent melton cloth.
The fardel contained her lone unempowered sigil—a second Weathermaker— maps and battle plans, writing materials, a few instruments of sorcery, and a tiny flask of her favorite vetiver perfume. She had no need of gold but had removed her mother’s small portrait from its frame and wrapped it securely in velvet and oilskin. She intended to leave her jewelry behind, along with her fine garments. In time, all of them could be replaced.
But, oh, how she regretted having to abandon her library! At the last minute she included four precious little volumes that she could not bear to leave behind. The Book of Prophecies, alas, was not one of them. But she had closely studied the section dealing with the Question of Bazekoy and was fairly confident that she had deciphered King Olmigon’s enigmatic answer.
It was time to go. She tucked the all-important lesser sigil named Beastbidder into the capacious belt wallet she had substituted for her gold-mesh purse. Concealer and Sender already hung around her neck, and Interpenetrator was snug in its cleverly fashioned bag up her sleeve, where a quick tug would allow her fingers to grasp it almost instantaneously.
Fortress would have to be left behind, continuing to guard her rooms at the top of the tower so that Beynor would have no hint that she had decamped. She was desolated at the thought of losing it, but if she took great care, the power of Concealer would keep her reasonably secure from both searchers and watchers.
As for her own Weathermaker, it would remain inactive until she was far away from Moss, safe in some place where the pain-price of its empowerment could be borne without jeopardizing her plans. With luck, she might not need it until Didion was conquered and it was time for her to deal with Beynor.
“Now guide me as I make my escape, dearest Mother,” she prayed. “You forbade me to kill my vile little brother and I submit to your will, but I intend to leave him something to remember me by.”
A tug of the string up her sleeve let Interpenetrator fall into her hand, and a windwhisper conjured Concealer. Invisible, she walked through the closed door of her tower and set off on her journey.
Chapter Eighteen
The King of Didion, Archwizard Ilingus Direwold, and Galbus Peel, commander of the flagship Casabarela Regnant and Fleet Captain of the Realm, stood together on the foredeck and studied the waterfront of Royal Fenguard and the rainbow-haloed castle perched on the crags above it. King Achardus and the captain used spyglasses, and the archwizard his modest windsight.
“Some sort of tarted-up barges putting out now from the big dock,” the king observed. “Welcoming committee, maybe.”
“Your Majesty is certainly correct,” said Ilingus, a middle-aged man in plain black robes, having the sad pouched eyes and pendulous flews of an old hound. His voice was high-pitched and his manner seemingly musty and pedantic. He was the King of Didion’s shrewdest and most trusted adviser. “Those in the lead boat attired in violet are members of the Glaumerie Guild, Moss’s highest coven of sorcerers. The leader of the delegation is one Ridcanndal, Grand Master of the Guild. You’ll know him by his buck teeth and his big red nose. Looks like a bibulous beaver. Those dressed in green and black are heralds and high-ranking warlock-knights of the young King of Moss… Oh, dear! I’m lip-reading bits of speech from some of them. I do believe they intend for you and the rest of the royal party to go ashore in those small watercraft of theirs.”
“Huh!” Achardus glowered his contempt. “No way I’m setting foot in any titchy bumboat like that. Damned thing would founder before we’d gone a half a dozen ells.”
“They don’t seem very sturdy, do they?” Captain Peel kept a straight face but his eyes gleamed with amusement. King Achardus weighed over three-and-twenty stone and stood six-and-a-half-feet tall. “Shall I lower our ship’s boats to ferry you and the others in, sire? Of course, the Mosslanders might take offense.”
“See to it, Peel, and signal our other ships as well. We’re going ashore in force and in our own style. Who cares if the Mossbellies’ bloody feelings are hurt? We’re the ones doing them honor by coming to their bogland shindig. And speaking of honor, where’s the royal whelp himself? No sign of young Beynor on the quayside, just a rabble of townsfolk, liveried flunkies, and some coaches flying our flag.”
“The King of Moss probably intends to welcome you at the castle in a more elaborate setting,” Ilingus said. “He and his sorcerers can perform their glamourizing tricks more readily indoors than out.”
Achardus waited until the departing captain was out of earshot, then said to the wizard, “I wish we hadn’t come, Lingo. Why the hell did I let my sons talk me into this? Politics and sorcery are a devilish mix! You know it and I know it. Hon and Somar think they can manipulate this boy Beynor without having to pay too high a price for his services, but I’m not so sure. What say you?”
“I think that I’ll withhold my opinion until I have more information. Ask me again tomorrow, Your Majesty, after the coronation.”
“Slippery as usual, and probably with damned good reason.” Achardus lifted the spyglass again and swept it over the structures on the shore. “Are you positive they’ve magicked up the place to make it look more presentable? Everything seems real enough to me—except for that idiotic rainbow.”
“That, oddly enough, is quite real,” Ilingus said with a sigh. “Its threefold nature is extraordinary, of course, but what’s truly amazing is its persistence. We’ve viewed it for over an hour now as our flotilla moved up the channel, and the castle has remained at the precise center of the phenomenon for all of that time. Your Majesty is of course well aware that the colored heavenly arcs are produced by sunlight refracting and reflecting from drops of precipitation. One would expect the arcs to fade or change their position relative to the castle as our ship sailed along, or a
s winds aloft carried the rainclouds northward. But that has not happened.”
The king scowled. “What’re you saying, man? Speak plain!”
“Some extremely powerful sorcery is controlling the wind direction, the amount of rainfall, the very size of the drops themselves, and perhaps even the direction of the sunbeams. In view of your sons’ report of Beynor conjuring fair winds for the voyages to and from the Continent, we must assume that he is also responsible for the peculiar triple rainbow.”
“A silly enough stunt,” Achardus scoffed.
“Not at all.” The archwizard’s voice was dark with foreboding.
The king’s brow creased in perplexity. “You mean, it’s a really hard thing to do?”
“To produce an illusion of a triple rainbow like this one would be well within the power of any competent wizard. Until today, I would have said that creating the real thing and keeping it going for such a long time was quite impossible. Yet Beynor has done it, no doubt to impress us. And I’m impressed.”
“Hmmm.” The king’s expression of angry bafflement intensified. His brows came together to form a single hedgerow of wiry hair, and his lips tightened within a thicket of grizzled beard. He had not yet donned his massive ceremonial helmet, crested with a winged bear, and his carefully curled grey locks hung to his shoulders. He was accoutered for the occasion in a suit of dazzling silvery scale mail decorated with gold lattenwork. His surcoat was of white doeskin, emblazoned with Didion’s snarling black bear’s head, and he wore a cloak of heavy black-and-silver silk damask, lined with ermine.