Conqueror’s Moon (20 page)

The people assembled in the hall seemed to crumple in response to his words. Mouths gaped as they cried out. The huddled Guildsmen behind the warlocks at the foot of the stairs finally stepped away, and the light of their flaming swords revealed a collapsed figure dressed in a purple brocade robe trimmed in white fox. Beside it knelt Akossanor, the diminutive Royal Physician, and Lady Zimroth, the High Thaumaturge. Both were weeping.

Ullanoth saw her father, Conjure-King Linndal, lying motionless on his back, his balding head turned at an impossible angle. He was only five-and-forty, but he looked twenty years older. His hawk-yellow eyes, once smoldering with lunacy, were wide open and calm—until the physician closed the lids with a gentle hand.

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“Where were you, Sister? We pounded on your door to give you the sad tidings, but there was no response. And of course your Fortress spell prevented entry.”

Beynor’s face bore no trace of tears, and he spoke to Ullanoth in his usual insolent tone.

After speeding back to Fenguard and entering the keep unseen, she had located her brother in the throne room, perched nonchalantly on the royal footstool while Guild members worked behind a wall of folding screens some distance away, preparing Linndal’s body. It was a Mossland custom for the deceased ruler to sit for one final day upon his throne and be viewed by his more important subjects. Because of unfortunate incidents in the past, the Guild and the nobility needed to be certain that the late monarch was well and truly dead before consigning his body to its funeral pyre.

Ullanoth had come in through a secret corridor, via the royal wardrobe, rather than reveal to Beynor her ability to interpenetrate the walls and become invisible. The throne room was stone cold and thick with shadows, except for the lights used by the ministering wizards and a single silver-gilt oil lamp that hung above the throne itself. Four armed warlock-knights stood before the main entrance, at the far end of the chamber. Their swords were mercifully sheathed, so there was no stink of burning brimstone. The unguents and spices being used to embalm the body filled the air with pungent perfume.

“I was inside my sanctum,” Ullanoth replied evenly, “distracted by a complex magical procedure. I would have heard nothing if the heavens had fallen. Then I finished my work and saw fire-kettles being lighted on the keep battlements, and came out to see what had happened. They say our father fell down the staircase and perished of a broken neck.”

Beynor’s pale hair seemed almost opalescent in the gloom, and his eyes were narrowed, as if in secret amusement, so that their blackness was minimized. He wore a fine houserobe of quilted spruce-green velvet, embroidered with golden stars and edged about the sleeves and neck with sable. The heavy royal sword in its jeweled scabbard was girded incongruously about his narrow loins.

Ah, thought Ullanoth. So the little toad thinks he’s won at last! But without a royal proclamation to the contrary, the firstborn will inherit the throne.

He said, “Father and I were talking in the gallery at the head of the stairs when suddenly he seemed stricken within his body. He cried out and clutched at his breast, then staggered away from me. Before I could go to his aid, he tumbled the full length of the steps.”

“How awful!”

“When I reached him, it was evident that the king’s life had fled. His neck was plainly broken—but Doctor Akossanor believes that he may have suffered a mortal heart seizure. He might have died before he ever reached the floor of the great hall.”

“What a terrible tragedy,” Ullanoth said, casting her eyes down. “Who would have thought Father’s heart was weak? Except for his poor wandering mind, he seemed in good health… May the Moon Mother lead him to the abode of eternal peace.” She paused for a significant moment before looking straight at her brother. “How strange that Father should have accompanied you to the gallery overlooking the great hall, rather than remaining in his chambers, where you had been conferring. It was so very late.”

Beynor shrugged.

“Was anyone else present at the time of the king’s fall?”

“The hall was full of sleepers, of course, who woke as I sounded the alarm. The physician, Ridcanndal, and Lady Zimroth came almost immediately to render what assistance they could. It was futile.”

“But no one was with you while you and Father conversed at the top of the staircase?”

“Unfortunately not. If others had been there, then perhaps the king would not have fallen down. As it was…” He gave a deep sigh. “And Father was so happy moments before.”

“Why so?” she asked suspiciously.

“We’d spent long hours talking. The king’s mental state was excellent. I told him about my satisfactory journey to the Continent, of course, and the bargain I’d struck with Honigalus and Somarus of Didion. Sensible men—even if it took them too long a time to take me seriously.” He gave her a winning smile. “One of the disadvantages of youth.”

“What is this great bargain?”

“I have promised to abolish the Wolf’s Breath, and to render them powerful magical assistance should Cathra attempt to annex their country by force. In turn, they’ll pay Moss a generous annual tribute when their fortunes are mended.”

She kept her face stony. “How in the world did you convince the Didionite princes you could shut down the volcanos? Not even the Destroyer sigil could accomplish that—presuming you dared to activate it.”

“The Diddlies are barbarians!” he said, with a scornful laugh. “Ignorant louts. What do they know of sigils? My demonstrations of high sorcery impressed them no end—especially Weathermaker’s fair winds that sped our ship all the way to Stippen and back, contrary to the season, and Moss’s ash-free skies. If I could deflect the Wolf’s Breath from our country and blow a three-tier barque along at twelve knots, why should they doubt I could stop the ashfall altogether?”

“When it doesn’t happen—” she began to say.

But he broke in with a triumphant grin. “Father told me before I left for the Continent that the volcanos are calming down. By spring, the Wolf will be dead. Father has been been bespeaking our dear auntie, Thalassa Dru, in her Tarn eyrie. She knows all about such things.”

“That’s impossible!” Ullanoth cried. “He’d never consult her!”

“Lower your voice,” Beynor hissed, nodding toward the screens that hid the mortuary workers.

“Father would never take counsel with his sister—nor would she bespeak him,” she whispered. “Not after he banished her so cruelly and blackened her name.”

Beynor spoke matter-of-factly. “I think Father and Thalassa mended their quarrel. What’s more, he confided to me some weeks ago that he was thinking of sending you to her when the unrest in Didion simmers down and the Wold Road reopens. Father thought you’d benefit from a long course of arcane instruction. You see, he knew you’d been playing dangerous little games with sigils. In his more rational moments he was afraid—and I quite agreed with him—that you’d endanger the stability of the realm with your girlish dabbling.” He drew a rolled parchment out of his robe and flourished it. “We spoke of that tonight at some length. It helped convince him to sign this decree.”

“Damn you, Beynor! Damn you! What have you done?” She rushed at him in a rage and would have torn the document from his hand, but a shimmering veil of air sprang into being between them, and when she met it, she recoiled with a scream of pain. “Aaah! You demon dog-scat!”

The shield winked out and his pale face was suddenly a mask of odious exultation. He pulled a shining sigil from the collar of his robe. It was the one named Subtle Armor. “Watch how you speak to me, Sister. I’m the new Conjure-King of Moss.”

“No…”

He loosed the red ribbon that held the vellum. “Here’s the decree, witnessed earlier this evening by Master Ridcanndal and Lady Zimroth.” The document dangled before her eyes, a thing finely illuminated with red and blue and gold leaf, stamped with Linndal’s bloody thumbprint and those of the witnesses. “You, the eldest child of his body, are explicitly debarred from the succession, and I am created heir to the throne. Should I die without issue, the crown will pass to our young cousin Habenor or his siblings, with Ridcanndal and Zimroth acting as co-regents until their majority.”

“I see,” she said in a flat voice.

“There are two duplicates of the decree, held for safekeeping by the Guild. You may keep this copy if you wish. It’s quite legal.” He beamed at her. “My death would gain you nothing, so forget about poison in the soup or cruder forms of assassination. You’ve lost, Ulla.”

“Poor Father!” She looked away without touching the document. “He loved neither of us. I think all the love that was in him turned to dust when our mother was slain so hideously by the Lights.”

When she made no move to accept the parchment, he rolled it up and retied the ribbon. “It will do you no good to accuse me publicly of causing Father’s death. The Glaumerie Guild is relieved that he’s gone, and so are most of the rest of the court. They’re bound to approve my lucrative new alliance with Didion, and I have long-range plans for Cathra, too! Your sweetheart Conrig won’t catch the Didionite garrisons at Castlemont and Boarsden by surprise. Advise your prince to hang up his spurs and forget about launching that invasion through Great Pass.”

“Better perhaps that I tell him to prepare to defend Cala city against a surprise attack from the mainland—instigated by you!”

“Say whatever you please,” Beynor said indifferently. “You are to be confined to the dungeon until I make arrangements to ship you off to Thalassa Dru in Tarn… Knights! Arrest the Conjure-Princess!”

The armed warlocks standing at the door came toward her with condescending smiles. They did not even bother to draw their magical weapons.

“So you think you can exile me,” she said to Beynor. “Have you forgotten that I am also able to command sigils?”

“To do what?” he scoffed. “Defend your rooms against intruders while you mess about in deep matters weakminded women can never understand? You’re not safe in your sanctum now, Ulla—you’re here, in my power.”

Beynor gestured, and suddenly he stood four ells tall with his head grazing the vaulted ceiling and huge arms resting akimbo. He had activated Shapechanger in a childish attempt to intimidate her. She was unafraid, but the warlocks who took hold of her were strong men she could not shake off. One of them had a thick silken cord, which he used to bind her gloved wrists behind her. Another knelt, chuckling insolently, and began to tie her ankles. They intended to carry her off like a trussed calf.

Beynor’s gigantic apparition howled a peal of scornful laughter. “Not so high and mighty now, are you, Sister?”

“Imbecile,” she said. The sigils Interpenetrator and Concealer were still within her gloves, resting painfully in the palms of her hands. She whispered the spells commanding them and vanished from the confining arms of the warlocks like a puff of vapor, leaving the knotted silk cords behind in a heap on the scuffed rush matting of the throne room floor.

thirteen

Iscannon’s sigil lay on the stone floor of the corridor, its glow and pain-giving potential temporarily in abeyance.

Without touching the thing with his bare hand, Snudge maneuvered it by its thong into his belt-wallet. The book seemed harmless enough when he gave it a fearful tap with his finger, so he rewrapped it and hid it again inside his shirt.

He hurried to the armigers’ quarters, arriving as the half-tenth-hour chime sounded. It was the usual bedtime for squires of the prince’s cohort, but none of the other boys were there. A quick overview of the palace showed him that they were part of the throng of courtiers waiting to welcome King Olmigon home from his pilgrimage. No one would miss Snudge. People were used to his odd comings and goings.

He hid the wallet with the sigil under his palliasse, which was closest to the outer door so he could sneak out easily at night, then went down the corridor to the necessarium. After entering and fastening the latch, he ignited the candle with his talent, unwrapped the book, and sat down on the covered stool to study.

The chapter that claimed his immediate attention was the one entitled Vital Precautions for the Thaumaturgist.

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Nearly an hour later, hearing the sound of distant cheers through the latrine’s loophole, he closed the small volume with a sigh and returned to the dormitorium. The other boys wouldn’t tarry long in the forecourt once the royals arrived. The Palace Steward would shoo them off to bed.

He undressed, tucked the wrapped book under his pillow, and lay beneath his covers, watching the smoky flames in the oil sconce hanging on the wall, thinking about what he had discovered.

Parts of the book were straightforward enough. Empowering a sigil—bringing it to life—always inflicted great pain upon the conjurer. Invoking the magic of the moonstones caused more or less suffering, depending upon the strength of the spell required. Also, certain sigils affecting the human body would only work when in contact with the owner’s skin. The invisibility charm he’d taken from the spy was of that type.

When the owner died, a sigils efficacy was cancelled. Ordinarily, someone else wishing to conjure a “dead” sigil into fresh activity would intone a rather lengthy incantation laying claim to it. The formula was in the book, but unfortunately written in that same unknown language used in the two larger books he’d left behind in Kilian’s sanctum. As written, the strange words had far too many consonants and odd diphthongs for Snudge to guess at their correct pronunciation. Saying them wrong, he had learned from the Vital Precautions led to horrible penalties.

By chance, using the moonstone disk on the book’s cover, he had stumbled upon a hazardous shortcut that invoked the Beaconfolk directly without the appropriate ceremonial overtures. This constituted a breach of magical etiquette that the book strongly cautioned against. As he had suspected, the cranky windvoice he’d heard had been one of the Beaconfolk (a low-ranking one, in charge of less-important sigils), asking him what the bloody hell he wanted. According to the book, his failure to answer the query properly might well have resulted in his annihilation. Only lucky happenstance had saved him.