Sorcerer's Moon (48 page)

The old one! Conrig thought in despair. Oh, Gossy. Why couldn't you have remained faithful? Why did you abandon me? Now I have no choice. None at all.

Aloud, the king said in a dull voice, 'When will you activate the sigils?'

'When you need them. Not before.' The sorcerer paused. His narrow face had gone hard. 'Do you swear to abide by my terms, then? Without any mental reservation?'

Conrig Wincantor, Sovereign of Blenholme, lowered his head in surrender. ‘I swear it by my Iron Crown.'

'Excellent. Then I suggest we part company and go to bed.'

Conrig turned away from the sorcerer and started toward the door. 'Yes. Both of us need peaceful sleep.' He looked over his shoulder and added, 'We should clarify one final point. There will be no more induced nightmares or other invasions of my dreams by you. Ever. Otherwise, our bargain is void.'

'The tactic is no longer necessary,' Beynor said with a smile. 'Goodnight, my liege.'

* * *

The six young Heart Companions waited impatiently for the Prince Heritor to join them at a pre-dawn breakfast. While they gobbled a hearty meal in anticipation of the upcoming day's ride to Rockyford Way Station in pouring rain, the young noblemen. exchanged wild speculations concerning Corodon's whereabouts on the previous night. He had failed to return to his room in their communal apartment following the feast.

'He might have gone out with the search-parties looking
for the Lord Constable,' opined Lord How. 'Coro helped find Catclaw's horse, you know. He hunts the marshes often and knows the area.'

'Or perhaps the Sovereign's still pissed off at our prince in spite of Hyndry's change of heart,' Lord Fentos suggested lugubriously. 'What if he sent poor Coro back to Cala Palace to sit out the war?'

'If old Somarus kicked the bucket last night,' Lord Alardon speculated, 'all the royals in the castle might have had to sit with the body overnight in some weird barbarian ritual.'

'Hsst!' Lord Rabidig whispered in alarm. 'He's coming.'

'Good morrow, Your Grace!' Lord Mardilan said brightly. 'Did you sleep well?'

Corodon shuffled into the room like a man half-conscious, garments wrinkled and imperfectly fastened, eyelids drooping, and lips curved in a sweet dreamy smile. Without a word to his disconcerted friends, he plopped into his regular seat at the head of the table, poured ale into a beaker with a shaking hand, and chugged it down in four heroic gulps. He belched, then emitted a deep sigh. The silly grin returned.

'Bazekoy's Buttocks!' cried Lord Jerek, who sat next to the prince. 'What in God's name ails you, Your Grace? Are you ill?'

'Nay, Jerry. Far from it.' He flapped a hand at his empty plate. 'Please. One of you dish me up some food. I'm famished. I'll faint in the saddle if I don't eat something now, and Father will poke fun at me. But I'm too wrung-out to lift a platter or crock.'

Uncertain chuckles greeted this remark. The six Companions had been told yesterday that King Conrig had ordered the Heritor not to accompany him, but to ride instead with Earl Marshal Parlian's smaller Southern Wing to the Lake of Shadows, along with the despised army of Didion.

Naturally the prince's band of Heart Companions would have to go with him and share his humiliation.

Corodon sensed their discomfort. 'What? Long faces? Ah - what a fool I am! I forgot to give you lads the happy tidings. My royal father has changed his mind. I'll ride at his side after all, with the Northern Wing of the army to the encampment below Frost Pass. And so will you!'

The young nobles broke into clamorous cheers while the prince picked up his tableknife and thrust it into the air as though he were leading a battle charge with sword on high. 'Forward!' he croaked. 'Bring on the monsters!' The others echoed him, roaring with laughter.

Count How Woodhouse, the oldest of the Companions at nineteen and the most sensible, heaped Corodon's plate with bacon and scrambled eggs and fried bread, then poured more ale. 'Would you care to tell us what happened last night? We were concerned when you never came to bed. Did you spend the night with His Sovereign Grace?'

'I slept elsewhere,' the prince murmured, 'after conferring with my dear father ... It was a night to remember!'

They stared blank-faced.

'And do you know what?' the prince continued. 'The bawdy old tales are right! I thought I knew it all, but I was wrong. God damn that Mossyback sorcerer and bless him, too - I'm fair destroyed. A husk of a man! But so very, very, very -' He giggled and slumped back in his seat, ignoring the food. 'Those tales. They're true, so true.'

'What tales, Your Grace?' How inquired, mystified.

Prince Heritor Corodon cocked his head in blissful reminiscence. 'The stories about older women .. . Oh, lads, I'm so much in love.'

* * *

The dawn skies over the northern half of High Blenholme Island were ugly, and Cray the Green Woman studied the
rushing clouds above the distant ocean with her longsight and shook her head. It was only days past the autumn equinox, and already the weather seemed to be slipping into a pattern more suited to the dreary Boreal Moon.

Rain sluiced the thatched roof of her snug cottage and poured in sheets from the eaves. She added more wood to the fire and swung the small kettle of milk on its crane to a spot above the coals that would heat it without scorching. Before long, the soul of her friend Thalassa Dru would reenter her inert body, which lay fully clothed on Cray's bed. The sorceress would need restoring herbal tea and a bowl of milksops with cinnamon and honey.

After a short time had passed, Thalassa came to her senses, sat up with a grunt, stretched, blew her nose on a frayed old silk kerchief, and joined Cray at the table where the light meal was waiting. She had been entranced for less than an hour. Like the equally adept Cray, she no longer needed to perform a lengthy drum-ritual in order to visit the Source in his otherworldly prison beneath the Ice. The effects of the soul-journey upon her sturdy constitution were also minimal because of her magical expertise.

'Well?' the Green Woman inquired. 'Did you manage to obtain a remedy against dream-invasion for Stergos to offer his royal brother?'

The sorceress paused in the spooning of her pabulum. 'I have the spell. But, alas - it may be too late to help Conrig. The Source told me that Beynor has already offered the king his three Great Stones. And Conrig has agreed to use them according to Beynor's instructions.'

'Toadflax!' Cray exclaimed in consternation. 'Did the Source know when the actual bonding would take place?'

'The decision is entirely Beynor's. The king is apparently a willing puppet. His courage and self-assurance seem to be tottering and he fears - quite rightly - that the dubious
strategy forced upon him by Somarus will cause a fatal delay in his army's response to the new Salka invasion. He's ready to grasp at any remedy. And you may not know this, but Ullanoth once told me that Conrig always had a secret desire to use sigil sorcery, as she and Beynor did. Not only against the Salka, but to further his ambitions of imperial conquest.'

'Did the Source have advice for us about coping with the situation? What if you and I popped through a subtle corridor and stole the sigils from Beynor? Or carried him off and marooned him in the Far East?'

Thalassa shook her head. 'I suggested something of the sort. The Source flatly forbade it. We are to inform Deveron Austrey of what's happened. Nothing more. When I protested, saying that we should take direct action to save Conrig from Beynor's evil influence, I was told that events are unfolding as they must. Really, I'm very vexed with our leader! He sees only his ineffable cosmic game-plan and spares scant sympathy for us groundling pawns.'

'Ansel dared to defy him,' Cray noted. Her gentle voice had a rebellious note. 'The Source is not infallible nor is he omniscient. Ansel single-handedly prevented the Salka from obtaining a large quantity of raw material for new sigils. What he did was justified, even if it cost him his life. Perhaps . . .' She trailed off, sending an unspoken question to her friend.

Thalassa Dru sighed and set aside her spoon. 'I'm afraid I lack Ansel's wisdom and invincible confidence. What if we inadvertently brought about disaster through meddling with Conrig and Beynor? It could happen. Even Ansel's victory was not total. The Salka salvaged enough flawless moonstone in the Barren Lands to manufacture two new Great Stones. The Source told me they're close to completing a Subtle Gateway and a Destroyer. Beynor might know about this. He could have used the fact to sway Conrig's decision.'

'Lousewort and pissabed!' Cray swore. 'What else did that blind black enigma have to say to you? Is there no good news at all?'

'The Source did have hopeful information from the Likeminded Remnant, although he wasn't certain what it signified. The exiled Lights - those who abandoned our world's Sky in despair, leaving only the Remnant behind -have made tentative contact with their old compeers. The exiles are finally willing to listen to the Remnant's plan for the New Conflict.'

'I suppose it's encouraging.'

'Do me a favor, dear, and bespeak Deveron Austrey this information while I eat a bit more. I think I need some of your jam tarts and a link of cold venison sausage to rebuild my stamina. This bowl of milksops didn't quite do the trick.'

The Green Woman nodded and fetched more substantial fare, including a flask of bilberry cordial to liven up the tea. Then she retired to a corner stool, scried out the present location of the former Royal Intelligencer, and windspoke him at some length.

When the silent converse was finished, she opened her eyes. 'Well! Hemlock and henbane - if this isn't a pretty state of things!'

'Whatever's the matter?' Thalassa cried in alarm.

'I understand now why the Source insisted that my grandson rescue the woman Rusgann Moorcock - but I can't say that I approve of it!' Cray related everything that Deveron had bespoken her about Rusgann's mission and her tragic death, as well as the delivery of Maudrayne's portentous letter to her son Prince Dyfrig.

Thalassa sat openmouthed with shock. 'Both the young prince and Earl Marshal Parlian now know that Conrig is Dyfrig's true father? And that the king possesses secret talent and sits the throne illicitly?'

'They know more than that. Deveron informed them that Conrig's twin sons by Risalla Mallburn are also attainted by slight magical abilities. In her letter, Maudrayne urged her son to claim the Iron Crown, since he is the only true heir. But Dyfrig rather sensibly shrank from the prospect, knowing it would throw the Sovereignty into chaos at this critical time. His adoptive father, Earl Marshal Parlian, agreed. And so did Deveron - until I told him of Conrig's alliance with Beynor and those three Great Stones.'

'Will Deveron now try to change Dyfrig's mind?'

'He hasn't decided,' Cray admitted. 'And I can't say as I blame him.'

Thalassa Dru's usual aplomb was badly shaken. 'Oh, my dear! Do you think Stergos knows about the letter?'

Cray nodded. 'He knows. He was present when Deveron delivered it and immediately divined what it must contain. He's always known the truth about Dyfrig and the king's secret talent.'

'I don't know what to say,' Thalassa murmured. 'Are we expected to somehow act upon this sensational information? The Source said nothing to me about it. Nothing, damn him!'

Cray got up from her stool, went to the cottage window, and looked out at the murky rainswept village. Most of the other dwellings were dark. 'Weather fit for Salka, that's what it is. Storms everywhere north of the dividing range, and it's getting colder as well.'

Thalassa finished the last of the sausage, washing it down with the fortified tea. 'That's better. My windtalents only needed a good stoking with hearty fuel. So now I'll bespeak Stergos directly and see what he thinks about all this. And I'll pass on a warning as well. The Source told me that Beynor ordered Conrig to get rid of his brother - send him away so Beynor would have a clear field. I must tell Stergos to take precautions. He could be in considerable danger.'

'And not only from Beynor,' Cray remarked. She reached for her cloak, which hung on a peg by the door. ‘I need to do some work in the longhouse, so I'll leave you to your windspeaking. Poor Stergos! Why don't we invite him to join us here? Beynor's ascendance puts him in an untenable position with the Sovereign. And let's ask him to bring along that chunk of raw moonstone Prince Corodon gave him. We three might experiment with it.'

'So we might,' Thalassa said with a slow smile. 'I've been thinking about the old manuscript that inspired young Vra-Bramlow to propose the Demon Seat climb to his brothers in the first place. Its author claimed that the mountain was the site of miracles granted to worthy petitioners many years ago. Which must mean that the Remnant used uncarved moonstone mineral as a Sky-to-Ground magical conduit long before Prince Orrion's adventure! Maybe the good Lights don't require an entire mountaintop to do the job

'Did you tell the Source about Corodon's two souvenirs?’

‘It slipped my mind.'

'Then let's keep it a secret from him for now, shall we?' The sweet inhuman face was sly. ‘I wonder if the Prince Heritor still has his own piece? I don't suppose we can scry it.'

'No. It's imperceptible to wind-sensibilities, just as the finished sigils are. Hmmm . ..' The sorceress stood rooted, mulling new possibilities. Then she strode to the door and began to don her own cloak. 'I've changed my mind, Cray. We don't dare waste time sending warning messages to Stergos. We need to snatch him! Otherwise, he might do something very foolish.' She frowned. 'Or someone else might.'

'Snatch? Through a subtle corridor, you mean?' Cray's emerald eyes had gone huge.

'Yes. And I think both of us will have to go for Stergos in case we run into trouble. Spinning a corridor large enough
for three will be hard on us, dear, but I think it's become imperative. We can build the portal in one of the empty long-house workrooms for safety's sake. Let's hurry. I have a foreboding that urgency may be required.'

'Right.' Cray opened the door and a blast of wind-borne rain smote their exposed faces. 'Will you conjure the umbrella-spell, or shall I?'