Sorcerer's Moon (26 page)

He agreed to see you' - the alchymist's shrug was apologetic - 'for a quarter of an hour.'

Prince Orrion burst into bitter laughter. 'I suppose it's plenty of time for him to decide whether I'll live or die!'

Bramlow said, 'And what about Coro and me? We'd hoped to stand at our brother's side, since we share a portion of the blame -'

'Speak for yourself, Bram,' Corodon said. 'I wasn't the one who told Orry about Demon Seat in the first place.'

'No,' the novice shot back, 'you only goaded him to climb the mountain, implying that he'd be craven and unworthy of Lady Nyla if he held back!'

Orrion's face had gone pale. 'Brothers, don't quarrel. I must confront Father by myself - and I intend to maintain that you two were in no way at fault, that you even tried to prevent me from committing the folly that deprives me of the throne. I can say nothing else. Your reputations and your future must not be jeopardized by my misfortune. Coro will be king one day - and you, Bram, might serve as his Royal Alchymist and privy counselor.'

Stergos addressed the pair with unexpected formality. 'Vra-Bramlow, Prince Corodon, you will both stay in this room until you're sent for. And you'd do well to pray harder than ever before in your foolish young lives.'

When the Prince Heritor and the Royal Alchymist arrived at the Sovereign's apartment and were admitted by the Lord of Chamber, they found Conrig in his dressing room attended by two valets, a barber, and his confidential secretary, Mullan Overgard. The High King was simultaneously having his fingernails buffed, trying on different pairs of ornate footgear, getting his beard trimmed, and dictating an edict which restored to Beynor the dominion, authority, and regal honors attending the Conjure-Kingship of Moss.

'"Pursuant to the above, I hereby command all persons residing within that nation or claiming citizenship therein to render promptly to Beynor ash Linndal the oath of fealty" . . . et cetera, et cetera. But there's to be
nothing
in this edict about renewing the annual stipend we paid to the late Queen Ullanoth. Let Beynor finance his own comeback.'

Lord Mullan stifled a chuckle. 'As you please, sire.'

Conrig caught sight of the arrivals. 'Finish the thing properly and have the scribes use plenty of illuminated initial letters with gold flourishes when they draw it up. I'll sign and seal it tomorrow. The damned edict is only pro forma anyhow, since the Salka monsters own Moss down to the last frog, bog, and quagmire. But it'll make Beynor happy and it might impress the expatriate Mossbellies over in the Thorn Estuary.'

The secretary stoppered his ink bottle and began to pack up his small portable desk. 'I'll have it ready, Your Grace, along with the other relevant documents.'

Conrig said, 'Good.' He eyed his son with a certain wariness. 'Do you require complete privacy for this discussion, Orrion?'

The prince said, 'If you please, sire. Except for my dear Uncle Stergos, who is here only out of kindness.'

The Lord of Chamber herded everyone else from the room and then withdrew himself, closing the door.

'Fifteen minutes,' Conrig declared, pointing to a graduated hourglass on the dressing table. He picked up a silver-gilt hand-mirror and began to smooth the fair hairs of his moustache. 'And I warn you, Orry, I don't care a mouse-turd for wild rumors about Princess Hyndry and Count Egonus Cuva and the other men she's supposedly bedded. You and she must marry whether or not -'

'Father.' The prince let his cloak fall to the floor, took off his doublet, and thrust forth his right arm with the shirt-sleeve
pushed above the elbow. The stump was neatly bandaged but the nature of the injury was all too obvious. 'I have suffered this grievous wound through my own fault, losing my sword hand and most of the lower forearm.'

The High King leapt to his feet and dropped the mirror with a loud cry. The glass shattered on the oaken floor, flinging bright shards in all directions, but Conrig seemed not to notice. His body had gone rigid and the blood drained from his countenance. After an interval of silence, he whispered, 'How?'

Orrion spoke as calmly as he could. 'As my brothers and I made our way northward from Cala Blenholme with our companions, we undertook a side-trip to Swan Lake to try the new style of fishing. Then I decided to climb one of the nearby mountains for the fun of it. Bram and Coro came with me, albeit with reluctance, but the rest of our friends remained behind. There was a rockslide and I took a bad fall. My lower arm and right hand were crushed beneath a great boulder. It seemed I would bleed to death where I lay. But Bram did what was necessary to free me. His healing talent and medical skill saved my life ... for what's it's worth.'

Conrig said nothing. He had closed his eyes and stood unmoving with both fists clenched.

Orrion continued. ‘I realize that my injury renders me incapable of ever leading our armies in battle. I can no longer be Prince Heritor of Cathra. With your gracious permission I will relinquish this honor to my twin brother Corodon, who - who is worthy to assume it.'

'Coro?'. The king's harsh voice was incredulous as he emerged abruptly from his state of shock, dark eyes blazing with fury.
'Coro?' he
shouted at the top of his lungs. 'That scapegrace inherit my Iron Crown?' -

Orrion pressed on doggedly. 'As for myself, I accept whatever penalty you think my foolishness deserves. My liege -dear Father - I ask for your mercy.'

With head bowed, the prince sank to his knees, oblivious of the bits of broken mirror that sliced through the thin leather of his riding habit like tiny knives.

He waited.

When Conrig finally spoke, it was as though each word were forced from his throat. 'I sentence you to death.'

'Oh, no!' Stergos cried in anguish. 'You can't -'

'Silence!' the king bellowed. 'You have nothing to say in this matter, Brother!'

Orrion lifted his head. He was calm and his eyes were dry. 'I deserve the penalty, Father, and I accept your judgment.'

Conrig's gaze shifted from the face of his son. 'Who else knows of this injury besides your brothers and Lord Stergos? Your Heart Companions?'

'Nay, sire. Because of the portentous nature of the wound, and my desire that news of it should not be spread abroad prematurely, I took care to conceal its true gravity from the men of my retinue and Core's as well. They know the arm was hurt, but not that the hand was lost. I kept the stump well concealed - first in heavy bandages and later in a padded gauntlet and sling. On our journey from Swan Lake to Boarsden, we were careful not to stop at any place where officious Brothers of Zeth would demand to examine me.'

'Hmm. So no one else knows . . .'

Orrion hesitated. 'May I beg to know when my life will be forfeit, sire?'

'I suspend your sentence of death,' Ironcrown said. 'Instead I intend to banish you from my presence for as long as it pleases me. I'll decide later where you shall go.'

'Thank you! I -'

'Be still, damn you! This rash action of yours may have wrecked a delicately wrought stratagem of mine. A plan of supreme importance! If King Somarus now refuses to give the hand of his daughter to Corodon - and Zeth knows the
fat bastard was already reluctant to have her wed
you
- the longterm prospects for Didion's allegiance to the Sovereignty are put at terrible risk. As is my own grand plan for the expansion of our hegemony to the Continent once the Salka threat is dealt with.'

Orrion was unable to conceal his surprise, but he made no comment. The Royal Alchymist could not help but murmur, 'Great Zeth, Con! You still dream of empire?'

Conrig turned to his older brother, pretending not to have heard the words of reproof. 'Tell me, Gossy: do you think Somarus will accept madcap Coro in place of this more worthy twin?'

'The dynastic advantage is the same,' Stergos replied stiffly. 'But we both know that the ultimate decision rests not with Didion's king but with his puppetmaster Kilian. Who may well
prefer
a royal son-in-law of Corodon's . . . special disposition.'

Conrig uttered a hollow laugh. 'You mean a malleable young idiot! Well, we'll find out at tonight's feast, won't we?'

Orrion ventured to say, 'I presume you would prefer me to absent myself, sire.'

'On the contrary. You will attend, as will both of your brothers, and this is what I expect you to do.' He explained in detail. 'Have I made myself clear?'

'Yes, sire.' The prince paused, thinking: Shall I tell him about Nyla? If I hold back and he learns that she and her parents are staying at Castlemont awaiting news of my fate, he might suspect that I contrived the injury!

'Get to your feet, boy,' the king ordered. 'You are dismissed. Go with your brothers to the suite of rooms prepared for you. Be sure to do exactly as I've commanded this evening - or I'll rethink my decision about your fate.'

Orrion could not help but flinch with pain as he rose. Flesh wounds from the broken mirror leaked blood through the
knees of his trews and caused kindly Stergos to give a cry of consternation. Conrig looked away, grimacing in disgust.

"Truly, Unde, the cuts are less severe than they seem,' the prince said. 'Don't be concerned.' And after taking a breath, he said to the High King: 'Sire, you inquired if any other person knew of the loss of my hand. I have not yet answered. There is only one more who knows, and she is Lady Nyla Brackenfield, the woman I once hoped to marry.'

Conrig whirled about with a curse, but Orrion continued resolutely.

'As my companions and I traveled down the road from Great Pass, we chanced to meet Nyla and her parents at a hostelry. I confess that I revealed the amputation to her. You see ... I had to know whether she could still love a one-armed man.'

Conrig's dark eyes narrowed. 'So! And what did the lady say?'

'That her heart was steadfast. And if in your mercy you would allow me to live, she would willingly be my wife. I am to send word to her -'

'Where is she?' the king demanded.

'Lodged at Castlemont Fortress with her parents.'

'I'm gratified that you saw fit to tell me about her,' Conrig said in a voice of ice, 'even if somewhat belatedly.' He turned to Stergos. 'With changes of horse there's still plenty of time for the Brackenfields to get here in time for the betrothal feast. Gossy, bespeak the Boarsden wizards and have them pass on my command to the Lord Lieutenant and his family at Castlemont. They are to attend us tonight.'

Orrion was stricken with dread. Were his sweetheart and her parents to be publically humiliated because of him? 'Sire, Nyla and I -'

A fleeting dark shadow crossed Conrig's face. 'Orrion, you'd do well to remember that no person of royal blood - not even
one who has been debased - may marry without the permission of the Sovereign. To do so is treason.’

‘Yes, sire.'

'Don't mention this subject to me again. Not until one year has gone by. By then - who knows? The dangerous situation may have mended itself. If it has not, then God help you. And your Nyla.'

The High King moved to a sideboard where ornate caskets containing finger rings and other jewels stood open awaiting his choices, together with the official regalia he would don for the night's celebration. Also there, resting on a red velvet cushion and looking rather out of place amidst the glittering splendor of gold and gems, was a simple circlet of blued and polished dark metal. Once it had served as the head-hoop of a discarded cask of tarnblaze explosive on a Cathran man o' war. The ship's crew had used it in good humor to honor a sick old king who had left his proper royal crown behind when he came aboard to direct a crucial sea-battle from his deathbed.

Conrig Wincantor lifted the Iron Crown of Sovereignty and turned it slowly in his hands. His expression had become remote and he seemed to have forgotten that Orrion and Stergos were there.

The prince opened his mouth as if to speak, but the Royal Alchymist shook his head imperceptibly, then said, 'Your Grace, is there anything else you require of us at this time?'

'No,' the king replied, without looking at either of them. 'Go away. Tell my Lord of Chamber that no one is to enter until I give permission. No one - on pain of death.'

Holding high the flapping skirts of his black robe, the wizard Niavar Kettleford, an aging little man whose unprepossessing body and crossed eyes helped disguise his formidable intelligence, dashed down the corridor to the chambers of the
Lord Chancellor of Didion. The two guards who stood at the main door of the royal official's apartment in the Wizards' Tower snickered as he slid to a halt, gasping for breath, and almost collapsed at their feet.

'Quickly,' Niavar gasped. 'Open up at once! I have urgent news for Lord Kilian.'

'Whoa, there, master!' The tallest guard grasped Niavar's arm and steadied him. 'The chancellor gave orders that he wasn't to be interrupted for any reason. Doing a tricky bit of magical work he is, along with his other two assistants.'

The small man almost screamed. 'You must let me in! Or at least call Master Cleaton or Garon Curtling to the door so I can pass on the tidings. This is vitally important, I tell you!'

'So's the good health of our thumbs,' muttered the second guard, a sullen-looking bruiser. 'And that's what we'll get hung up by, if'n we disobey the chancellor's orders.'

Niavar's choler faded, leaving his features set and pale and his eyes reduced to slits. With his squint now imperceptible, he seemed a different person altogether - and dangerous. He backed away from the men, lifting both arms in a gesture of conjuration, and shrilled, 'You fools leave me no choice.'

'Oy!' the first guard cried in alarm. 'No need to get -'

An abrupt
snap snap! -
not very loud.

The men's eyes rolled back in their heads and they fell to the floor senseless in a crash of armor and weaponry. Niavar seized one of their halberds and began to hammer on the stout oaken door. It was protected by a shielding spell, of course, or he would have been able to conjure the lock open or at least windspeak those inside. He regretted causing an uproar - open-mouthed servants and a handful of junior magickers belonging to Duke Ranwing's cadre of house-wizards were already gathering at a safe distance at the opposite end of the corridor, staring at him - but the situation demanded drastic action.