Conqueror’s Moon (19 page)

When I am Conjure-Queen, Ullanoth promised herself, all that will change.

She hurried through the gloomy great hall, where the freeborn servants were long since asleep on their pallets, down the staircase to the forebuilding, which was guarded but not locked, and out into the torchlit inner ward. Rothbannon’s Marvel, a spectacular mechanical clock mounted above the massive gatehouse, showed a quarter past three in the morning.

She looked back toward the keep and saw lights shining in the royal chambers above. The occupants were shielded by Beynor’s own Fortress sigil. For a moment she contemplated Sending herself to them and forcing a confrontation. Her Great Stone had the power to penetrate Fortress’s guardian spell, and Interpenetrator would make the strongest door as easy to pierce as smoke. But she discarded the notion at once. She was not yet ready to reveal her own powerful weaponry to the enemy. Beynor believed that her sigils were only capable of defending her and performing minor sorcery. She’d taken care not to contradict his misapprehension, and now was not the time to disabuse him.

No one was about as she hurried past the quiet cookhouse, bakery, and stables and approached the guardhouse beside the inner gate, where special caution would be needed to avoid detection. She paused in the heavy shadows and slipped Interpenetrator into the palm of her other glove. Mentally, she spoke its enabling spell, gritting her teeth. Fortunately, the pain associated with the magic of the two minor sigils was not too severe.

Concealer had enabled her to vanish completely, except for a faint shadow cast by the light of the guards’ peat brazier. Three armed men were gathered around it, warming themselves and gossiping in low voices. They never noticed the shadow drift past. Another pair of sentries stood on either side of the lowered inner portcullis next to the ropes of the alarm bells. They seemed half-asleep and ignored the almost inaudible sound of footsteps approaching the black iron grating… and the shadow that melted through the heavy metal without hindrance, then conquered the outer portcullis with equal ease.

She continued through the barbican, seeped past its barred oaken door, and traversed the outer ward, which was deserted except for sentries at the torchlit towngate and Watergate. She approached the latter, keeping close to the wall to obscure her shadow, and used magic to make the four men on duty sneeze. As they were distracted, she drifted through the closed gate like a wraith, went cautiously down the long flight of stairs that wound through the rocks, and came finally onto the landing stage along the Darkling River.

She deactivated Interpenetrator and tucked it away. The shield of invisibility hurt hardly at all. A number of skiffs were chained at the far end of the landing. She unlocked the cleanest-looking one with a tap of her finger, climbed into it, and caused it to move rapidly upstream.

With the moon down and the sky mostly cloudy, it was very dark. Quick flicks of her windsight reassured her that no one was watching the “empty” boat mysteriously breasting the sluggish current. Mosslanders didn’t often go abroad at night, for fear of the Salka cannibals and other nocturnal horrors. Rothbannon’s clock tolled the half-hour, and she heard sentinels on the battlements of the castle faintly calling “All’s well.” From overhead came the mellow, hornlike calls of migrating swans, abandoning the fens for their winter refuges on the Southern Continent even though the first frost had yet to touch Moss. The only other sound was the chuckling of the river against the driving hull of the rickety boat. Patches of mist hung over the water.

When she was beyond the small capital city of Royal Fenguard, in the marshes of the Little Fen that extended between it and the broad expanse of Moss Lake, she guided the skiff out of the main channel and made it go up one of the innumerable small creeks that led back into the bulrushes. Soon she arrived at a small area of open water, dark as ink beneath the faint luminosity of the sky. It was a suitable spot, and she brought the boat to a halt.

Ullanoth stood up, threw back her fur hood, and called out on the wind.

Shanakin! Tyarn na tean gelain! Bi isti!

She waited impatiently. A light breeze, freighted with chill, began to blow out of the north, parting the wisps of mist, rustling the leaves of the marsh plants, and hinting of the arctic cold that would eventually spread down from the Great Fen, locking the land in winter fastness. Even with the weather changes brought about by the Wolf’s Breath, the snows would start in Moss at the beginning of the Ice Moon. Dilapidated old Royal Fenguard would be swathed in white crystalline hoarfrost, even more beautiful than it had been in the day of the first Conjure-King—at least until the spring thaw unclothed its shabbiness.

Before then I’ll rule, she told herself. Father couldn’t deny her the succession if she confronted him with the power and wealth of the Sovereignty… and her own collection of activated sigils, which she was confident would overwhelm those now controlled by Beynor, that vainglorious little maggot!

Her detestable (but hugely talented) younger brother had been the first sorcerer since Rothbannon to successfully dare the Great Lights, and in doing so he had deprived Ullanoth of her royal birthright. Undaunted by the appalling fate of their mother, and with King Linndal distracted by periodic attacks of insanity, the youth had delved recklessly into Beaconfolk magic without hesitation or hindrance. By the time he was fourteen, he had activated five of the Seven Stones of Rothbannon kept in the custody of the Glaumerie Guild, in spite of the horrified wizards’ best efforts to restrain him. His success emboldened him to demand the throne that was rightfully Ullanoth’s. Their father, in his lucid moments, was not only delighted with Beynor’s prowess at high sorcery, but also approved the boy’s plot to subvert Didion and restore Moss’s lost glory.

Ullanoth had at first despaired of equalling her brother’s accomplishments and regaining what she felt was her birthright. The ruler of Moss had traditionally nominated his or her successor, although the eldest child had almost always ascended to the throne in the past. But how could she hope to oppose Beynor, who could command the Coldlight Army? He had brought four minor sigils and one Great Stone—Weathermaker—to life, while she was capable only of conventional magic. He felt free to insult her openly, invade her dreams, and torment her with ugly hints of what he would do to her when he became king. Ullanoth had sunk into despondency and even considered ending her life before she fell completely into her brother’s power.

Then fate, or perhaps the benevolent Lady Moon, intervened on her behalf. One spring night, just after Beynor had miraculously deflected the Wolf’s Breath away from Moss with the newly empowered Weathermaker (nearly killing himself at the same time that he earned the rapturous approbation of the mad king and the Guild), Ullanoth dreamed of her late mother, Taspiroth. It was as if the beloved ivory portrait had come to life and roused the sleeping princess by taking hold of her hand.

“Mother!” Ullanoth had cried joyfully, sitting up in bed. “You’re alive!”

“Not in your world, dear child. You’re dreaming—and when you wake I will be gone. Nevertheless, what I’m about to tell you is true, and you must do as I say.”

Stricken with sorrow and fear, Ullanoth could only nod her head.

“Your brother has a heart dedicated only to himself,” Conjure-Queen Taspiroth continued, “and he must not be allowed to prevail. You, my dear Ulla, are to rule Moss, and to do so you will have to conquer Beynor. However, I adjure you under pain of damnation not to kill him, nor even to harm a single hair of his head. Your brother will encompass his own doom after fulfilling the role he is destined to play in the history of our magical island of High Blenholme.”

In the dream, Ullanoth gave protest. “But, Mother, how can I conquer Beynor without harming him? In fact, how can I manage the task at all, since he conjures the Lights and I’m helpless before their power?”

“I have a gift for you. Use it with the greatest of care, only when absolutely necessary, and all will come about as I have said.”

The queen told her what she must do to find the gift and then kissed her on the brow, whereupon Ullanoth woke to the sound of spring birdsong. Most of the dream was still vivid in her mind; the only part she would forget was the implication that Beynor would rule Moss before her.

The next day, dressing herself in fusty old garments and concealing her bright hair, the princess had crept from the castle, stolen a small boat, and gone alone into the trackless swamp called the Little Fen, west of the castle. There, on a tiny rocky islet, she found the lightning-blasted skeleton of a dead willow, exactly as Queen Taspiroth had said.

Hidden among its roots was a rotting chest containing seven inactive sigils.

From her arcane studies, she realized that each one was capable of being conjured in a different mode of enchantment. Like the sigils owned by Beynor, four were minor and three were Great Stones capable of formidable sorcery. Furthermore, the means of activating them was contained in books within the Guild archives, freely accessible to all members of Moss’s royal family.

Remembering how her poor mother had been destroyed by the Lights after bungling the empowerment of one of Rothbannon’s Great Stones, Ullanoth had decided then and there against activating any of these new-found sigils out of mere curiosity. She would bring them to life only as needed, as the Conjure-Queen had advised.

She would certainly rule Moss. But why stop there?

==========

In the years that followed, Ullanoth plotted her own strategy well. Studies of island history had taught her that magic alone was not enough to found an enduring empire, and neither were military leadership nor political astuteness, taken by themselves. At least two of those factors were necessary for any chance of success; and the odds would shoot up vastly if one possessed all three.

She had looked beyond her younger brother’s puny scheme to gain the allegiance of Didion’s princelings. With the Great Stone called Sender, she possessed a way to enlist Conrig Wincantor himself in her great enterprise. The heir to the throne of Cathra was a brilliant and dangerous man, and one not to be trusted. But she was confident that she could manipulate him, at least for the time being. And later—

What was that?

Shanakin? Is it you?

A swarm of fuzzy yellow sparks came meandering through the misty rushes, taking its own sweet time reaching her. One of the sparks was considerably brighter than the others and had a blue-white, starlike center. She deactivated Concealer and became visible. After a few minutes the bright spark separated itself from the swarm, bobbed over the open water, and hovered in mid-air beside the boat, greeting her in her own language:

“Princess Ulla. It’s been many a moon. May I presume that the time has come for taking action?”

“You may,” she replied. “Mounted warriors are on the move in small groups down in northeastern Cathra, heading for Castle Vanguard in the foothills of the Dextral Mountains. Command your subjects to conceal the travelers in warm mist, harmless and natural-appearing, until they reach their destination. Take care that none of the humans lose their way, but hide them well from my brother’s windwatchers.“

“What about befogging the mountain passes and the road to Holt Mallburn in Didion? Do you still want that done?”

“Later, Shanakin, in less than two weeks. I’ll give you plenty of notice, but your people should be ready.”

“The weather remains unseasonably warm in the south because of the winds protecting Moss from the Wolf’s Breath. But the volcanic eruptions are diminishing. As they do this, the magical winds called up by your brother will die away and arctic air will sweep down from the Barren Lands, freezing our misty cover.”

“If this seems likely to happen, I will use my own strong magic to hold the winter cold at bay. Just do your job as we agreed, and leave the rest to me.”

“And our reward, Princess?” The spark flared greedily.

“As I promised, it will be given you within the Didionite capital city. There will be plenty for all to share.”

“There’d better be!” said the spark, with a wicked little laugh. “Don’t even think of cheating us of our due. Remember what happened to Conjure-King Lisfallon, your grandsire, who thought he could trifle with us. Many Mosslanders now thoughtlessly consider my people to be impotent and of no account. Beware! We may be only Small Lights, but we have our ways.”

“Of course you do,” she said smoothly, “and excellent they are. Farewell for now, my friend.” ,

“Farewell yourself, Princess. May the Salka monsters trip and break their tusks as they pursue you, and the Beacons fail to find your shadow!”

The spark zipped away to join its fellows, and the swarm of them faded into the night.

Ullanoth sighed and sat down again in the skiff. Insolent little hellspawn! She hoped there’d be enough prey left alive in famine-ridden Mallburn Town to satisfy them.

Well. Time she went back to the castle and to bed. It was devilishly damp and chilly out here. Another cup of hot spiced wine would be welcome, and then she’d have to find out what Beynor had been up to with the king. The two of them had spent an unusually long time together.

Ullanoth glanced in the direction of home and gave a soft gasp of surprise. Fenguard Castle, situated among crags above the river, had its keep ablaze with light. “Moon Mother mine!” she cried. “What can have happened?”

She sent her windsight soaring and found that the entire place seemed to be awake. People were rushing about, some frightened and others grim-faced as they streamed out of their various sleeping quarters and hurried toward the great hall, which was thronged. Many of the people bore rushlights or torches, since the usual oil lamps had been extinguished for the night. There was no special magic shielding the area, but her windsight was frustrated by the sheer numbers of servants, courtiers, guards, and half-dressed magickers crowded around the base of the grand staircase.

Beynor was standing there, a few steps up so he had a good view of whatever was happening almost at his feet. Warlock-knights with drawn swords flaming prevented any ordinary folk from ascending and made a bright protective semicircle around those at the very bottom of the stairs. She could not read anyone’s lips, but it was evident that the place was a bedlam of noise. After a few minutes, one of the kneeling figures arose and climbed the steps to stand beside Beynor. It was Ridcanndal, Grand Master of the Glaumerie Guild, the king’s principal adviser. He made a brief announcement. His face, disfigured by a bulbous nose and unfortunately prominent front teeth, was grave.