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thirty-three
The easy triumph that had
seemed well within the grasp of King Honigalus yesterday was now looking much
more difficult to achieve. And it was all Beynor's fault.
The steady southeasterlies
requested of the young sorcerer had prevailed nicely enough while the
Continentals sailed up from Nis-Gata, but the wind dropped away to nothing
within an hour of the corsairs' joining the armada. At first, the flat calm
seemed fortuitous. It eased the transfer of munitions and much-needed
foodstuffs from the newcomers to the nearly empty holds of the Didionites and
enabled the king's fleet commanders to confer face-to-face with their
Continental counterparts. Battle-plans were coordinated, stores of food and
water secured, magazines filled, and cannons readied. The Didionite captains
and their allies enjoyed a fine meal in the royal saloon of Casabarela
Regnant, then prepared to cross
But it did not pick up. And
frantic appeals to Beynor went unanswered.
King Honigalus and his
officers stood glum on the quarterdeck of their huge flagship beneath a full
spread of sails that only fitfully filled with gentle breezes. Instead of
coming out of the southeast, the light airs blew from the north. After seven
hours creeping to windward, the armada had moved less than fifty leagues toward
their encounter with the foe.
"Where's
that damned Fring?" Honigalus demanded. "Surely he and his clutch of
magickers must have found out some news of Beynor by now. It's impossible that
the entire Glaumerie Guild of Moss should have no notion of the boy's
whereabouts. We must have a favorable wind!"
Galbus
Peel threw a brief glance at the overcast sky. "This morning we had a red
dawn, Your Majesty—not a thing that mariners traditionally welcome. But it
might signify an important change in the weather."
"The wizard
comes!" one of the young lieutenants announced, and a bulky black-robed
figure emerged a moment later from the companionway and came on deck.
Fring bowed to the king and
made his report with a long face. "There is grave news from Moss, Majesty.
Ridcanndal, Master of the Glaumerie Guild, finally admitted that Beynor has
disappeared from Royal Fenguard. So has the barque that was Didion's gift to the
king. No one has any notion of the missing young man's destination, nor can
they explain why he should have gone away. All Ridcanndal will say is that
baleful thaumaturgy is at work, clouding the guild's oversight."
Honigalus spoke a weary
obscenity. "Beynor has let us down. The brat over-reached himself, just as
we feared, and now he's gone into hiding."
"Beg pardon,
Majesty." Fring's lips displayed a grimace that might have been a smile.
"If the Conjure-King had merely failed to fulfill his boastful promises to
you, there would have been no good reason for him to flee Fenguard—especially
since a terrible blizzard is now raging throughout the northland."
"It matters not,"
Honigalus said, shaking his head in disgust. "The whole pack of
bogtrotters can go to the Hell of Ice for all I care! Were your scryers able to
locate the Cathran fleet? And what about the Tarnians?"
"The effort was one of
the most difficult we have ever attempted. However, we did obtain the
information following an intensive—and, I might add, painful—conjunction of
minds. As Captain Peel predicted, Admiral Woodvale has taken up a position just
south of the entrance to Blenholme Roads. The Tarnians have met with light,
variable winds, just as we have. They are now making their way across
The king's face cleared.
"Excellent! After we smash Woodvale's force, the Harriers are bound to
turn tail for the
"No,
Your Majesty." Fring was smug. "Do you have further orders for
me?" When Honigalus shook his head, Galbus Peel said, "Bespeak our
people at Sorna on the west coast and Castle Highcliffe on the east. I wish to
know the wind direction up there and its force—and if there is any sign yet of
snow-clouds coming southward over the sea."
Just before sunup, with the
weather around
"We could save nearly two hundred leagues, using the
shortcut," the viscount said. "But I don't think we should chance it
unless Stergos bespeaks Ullanoth. We need to be certain that her rambunctious
magical gale doesn't return unexpectedly while we creep through the
shoals."
"Very well,"
Conrig said, rising from the table in the officers' mess, where he had been
conferring with Skellhaven and Baron Ingo Holmrangel, who served as First Mate.
"I'll ask my brother to attempt to reach the princess. But she warned me
she might be too weak for distant windvoicing after conjuring yesterday's big
northerly blows on either side of the island."
Holmrangel shook his head
slowly, frowning. "A weird thing, that, and nothing any seaman familiar
with
The baron was a
rough-featured, bearish man with a distinct family resemblance to his older
cousin. He had proved himself to be impressively efficient at organizing the
makeshift crew of Shearwater, and had personally beheaded a Stippenese
bosun caught attempting to sever the clipper's fore-topmast stay early on in
the voyage. After the execution of the saboteur, the other Continental crewmen
pressed into service had cooperated meekly with their Cathran captors.
Conrig
found Stergos on the poop deck, staring morosely at the passing scene of
"It's no use, my trying
to bespeak Princess Ullanoth," Stergos said, after Conrig had made his
request. "I attempted to reach her a short time ago with no success. She
may still be recuperating abed—as poor young Deveron is—and with us so far away
from Holt Mallburn now, my voice is not strong enough to penetrate her
slumber."
"Snudge!" Conrig
brightened. "He's rested long enough. Let's wake him and have him try for
Ullanoth. She made it plain enough that she knows of his talent." He took
Stergos by the arm and drew him toward the companionway. "I wish we could
have kept his ability secret from her, but I feared she'd learn of it if she
ever got close to him."
"Do you think she also
suspects Deveron of using Iscannon's sigil?" the doctor whispered,
following Conrig down the ladder to the middle deck, where the squires had been
given sleeping space among the merchant ship's single line of cannons.
"Who can say? I only
wish I knew whether Snudge told the truth when he claimed the Concealer was
lost at
"Cowardice? How can you
say such a thing?" Stergos hissed, seizing his brother by the upper arms
as they gained the middle deck. "He saw his friends murdered before his eyes,
and their killer burnt to cinders by the moonstone's sorcery. He has told
me of this to ease his mind, weeping like the devastated child he is. But no
coward opened the bridge-gate to your army."
"Snudge swore fealty to
me and dare not abjure his duty," said the prince, his face adamant.
"If you know that he still has the Concealer stone in his possession, you
must tell me."
"I don't know it."
Stergos met his brother's hard gaze without flinching, even though there was
desolation in his own eyes. "Neither will I question him about it, lest he
be tempted to lie to me."
"So!
But you care not that the boy lies to me?"
"Con, I love you and
will give my life for you. But you can't demand that I compromise the
conscience of another person. No liege lord on earth can ask such a thing. I
know that Deveron has begged you to trust him—"
"As has Ullanoth," the prince muttered.
"Trust! It's a luxury few princes can afford."
"But
the boy is worthy of it. If he does still have the stone, perhaps one day he'll
feel strong enough to use it again in your service. Until then, I beseech you
not to press him. It will do no good."
"Ah, Gossy!"
Conrig made a gesture that mingled exasperation and surrender. "You and
Snudge are alike in so many ways. I swear I'll ask no more of either of you
than you will freely give. Forgive this black humor of mine. It's the war .. .
my fears for the Sovereignty and for Cathra itself . . . the quirk of fortune
that allowed Honigalus and his armada to escape Mallburn Town before we could
stop them . . . the stupidity of our own admirals. And here I am, with all my
hopes now dependent upon the powers of a fickle sorceress—"
"And perhaps also upon
our poor dying father," Stergos added. "But he believes the oracle
that said all would come right in the end. What can we do but try to believe
it, too?"
They were gentle waking the
boy, who had dark circles beneath his eyes and was so sluggish that he could
barely emerge from the blankets of his hammock. He had slept for more than
twelve hours and eaten nothing since Shearwater had quit Mallburn
harbor, but if he suffered nightmares he said nothing of it to Conrig or
Stergos.
"You need warm food and
drink more than anything," the alchymist decided, after he and his royal
brother had helped Snudge into his clothes. They draped his arms over their
shoulders, hauled him to the petty officers' mess next to the galley, and sat
on either side of him at the splintery table. A fat Stippenese cook dished up
fried ham and warmed-over wholewheat porridge laced with dried apricots to
Snudge, and served all three Cathrans heated wine from the private stock of the
ship's dead captain.
"Now, before you drink
down too much of that awful vinegar-blink and blur whatever talent remains to
you," the prince said, once the cook had retreated, "try to bespeak
the Conjure-Princess in Holt Mallburn. Ask her if she can maintain a gentle
wind in the channel north of Terek Island in the Vigilants, so our ship can
shortcut through it to Cala Bay. Ullanoth may be asleep, recovering from her
magical labors."
Snudge
nodded and hunched forward with his head in his hands. The brothers sipped the
wine, which was actually an outstanding vintage.
After a
while Snudge sighed and lifted his face. He was smiling wanly. "I did have
to wake her, and she wasn't pleased. But she assures me that whatever winds
prevail here now will continue for at least half a day more. Later, the weather
may change due to natural causes. There is nothing she can do to influence it
through magic at this time—not, she says, without risking harm to
herself."
Stergos
rose. "I'll inform Skellhaven." He hurried away.
"The Conjure-Princess
wasn't surprised to have me voice her," Snudge said. "She
also told me that King Beynor has fallen afoul of the Beaconfolk, who were so
angry with him that they took Rothbannon's sigils away. The king has fled to
the Dawntide Isles to live with the Salka. Ullanoth assures you that her
brother will no longer assist Honigalus through his sorcery."
"Futter me!" the
prince exclaimed. "There's good news for a change. Maybe our
navy has a chance against Didion and the Continentals after all . . . Did the
princess tell you whether she plans to join us soon?"
"No, Your Grace. And I
didn't think to ask her. All she said was that she needed to rest. She
commanded me not to bother her again before evening."
Conrig sat back with a sigh
of disappointment. "Ah, well. Drink up, lad. And get that food inside you.
When you're stronger, I'd like you to scry what the enemy armada may be up
to."
"I'll
do my best, Your Grace."
Conrig sat silent until the
boy had finished his meal, apparently lost in thought. Finally he said,
"Are you truly feeling better? I realize that the affray at
Snudge
sipped wine, making no reply.
The prince rose.
"Perhaps you'd like to get a little more sleep in my cabin. It's a tiny
place, but God knows it's warmer and drier than that cramped coop on the
gundeck."
"It's
best that I sleep with the other armigers. But perhaps a short stay in a more
private spot would be best if I must attempt scrying."
Conrig said, "I'm
afraid you must. Stergos can bespeak our own war-fleet and even contact the
Tarnian windvoice traveling with the mercenaries. But I must depend on you to
give us oversight of the foe, even though the work drains your strength."
He hesitated. "Is it very hard on you, Snudge?"
"I
can bear it, Your Grace, for duty's sake."
* * *
Shearwater threaded her cautious way
through the rocky channel, aided by a
spring tide, and finally gained the open waters of Gala Bay. Meanwhile, with
Snudge overwatching and giving periodic reports to Conrig and Stergos, the
advancing armada of Honigalus made better time as the wind veered to the east
and blew more steadily. By sundown, the sky was heavily overcast and a cold
drizzle brought misery to seamen forced to climb the rigging of the tall ships
to
shorten sail. Honigalus and Peel plainly intended pressing on through the
night,
but the individual ships of the armada now gave each other wide sea-room and
proceeded with great caution.
"They'll hit the Lord Admiral's force in the morning, after they pull together again into battle formation," Skellhaven predicted. "But we still have the advantage, Your Grace. We're bound to reach Woodvale first. Too bad about the Harriers,though."
The Tarnian frigates pressed on doggedly toward Intrepid Point, but none of their skippers would predict when they might reach Blenholme Roads and join the Lord Admiral's fleet.
Snudge and Skellhaven departed the captain's cabin to their separate duties, leaving Conrig and his brother alone, brooding over a chart by lamplight. The night was full of the distinctive sounds made by a great ship under sail: the creak of timbers, the squealing of spars and booms, the slap and hum of rigging, and the continuing rush of water sliding past the hull.
"Brother," the prince said after a time, "bespeak our father. We may as well find out whether the king's brave attempt to educate the Lord Admiral and his captains in the niceties of small-craft warfare has failed or succeeded."
"And we must learn how he fares bodily as well," the alchymist said in quiet reproof, "although the ship's doctor professed to be amazed at his unexpected vitality."
The chief windvoice aboard Woodvale's flagship Princess Milyna was a cheerful young alchymist named Vra-Bolan.
Ho, Gossy!
So it's you again, is it? There's really no news. We're riding in mid‑bay,
waiting and praying. I can hear the men below singing loud songs. The Lord
Admiral ordered an extra ration of grog to cheer them up.
`Bolan, the Prince Heritor would talk to King Olmigon, if His Grace hasn't retired for the night."
He's
actually in remarkable fettle. He came aboard this morning with no crown or
other symbol of royal authority, and an hour or so ago the fo'c'sle gang
decided something had to be done about that before tomorrow's battle. So they
crowned the old man with the iron band from a tarnblaze cask!
Stergos passed on this bit of intelligence to Conrig, who burst out laughing.
It took Vra-Bolan only a few
minutes to reach the cabin where the king lay, and then father and son
conversed haltingly on the wind. Conrig soon learned that Olmigon's scheme for
the small-boat flotilla had finally been accepted by the admiral and his
commanders, although they still nursed serious doubts. The out-look now seemed
so grim that almost anything was worth a try—even sending sloops and cutters to
attack men o' war.
I had to demonstrate the
damned maneuvers over and over again, the
king complained, first to Woodvale, then to the fleet captains, and finally
to the shallop skippers themselves, maneuvering squadrons of dried beans around
tiny warship models on a tablecloth. The little fellows know what they have to
do, though, and they intend to do it well ... You realize, of course, that most
of them will die.
"Yes, sire," said the-prince.
Take care
of their people.
"Of course."
Is there
any hope of magical assistance from Ullanoth?
"I fear not. She gave
us gales on either side of the island when we needed them and calmed the winds
that favored our foe. It exhausted her. We bespoke her not long ago. What
strength she can summon she intends to use tomorrow to Send herself to Fenguard
and claim the crown of Moss. That's her highest priority. I can hardly fault
her."
No ... Con?
"Yes, sire?"
You should know that if
my insane deathbed ploy does help launch the Sovereignty, much is owed to your
wife Maudrayne and to the shaman Ansel, who enabled me to reach Woodvale. Show
them your gratitude also.
"I will. And I intend
to acknowledge the emperor's role as well. The entire island will hear of his
oracle and marvel at it. Perhaps I'll put Bazekoy's face on the coinage of the
Sovereignty."
He'd
probably think that a great joke .. .
"How
do you feel, Father?"
Tired.
Content. There's not much pain. Did I tell you that I dreamed of Bazekoy only a
day ago? That was how I knew my time had come, that I must leave my deathbed
and take action. But the emperor also spoke strange words to me that pertained
somehow to you. He said, "They're coming: cold iron and cold iron
clashing. Warn your son to take refuge then, forsaking victory, for these two
are the foe no man can defeat." . . . I couldn't fathom what he meant.
"I don't understand it
either, sire. Was he saying that Cathra cannot win the upcoming battle? If so,
that contradicts his response to your one Question. It puts paid to all our
hopes."
No.
I think it must mean something else entirely. If only I could grasp the damned
slippery thought and force it to yield up its gist!
"Take heart. Perhaps
this dream of yours was just a dream, and no arcane portent at all. Put it from
your mind and rest. Tomorrow, when I see you again, we can speak more of this
if you wish."
The king bade both of his
sons good night, but they still sat at the chart table, reluctant to go to
their cabins. With the index fingers of either hand, Conrig idly traced the
rugged coastline of High Blenholme—from
He gasped as the realization
came to him. "Oh, God, Gossy! Could that be it? The Hammer and
Anvil?"
The brothers regarded each
other for a moment in a dread surmise. Then the alchymist said, "Since the
Wolf's Breath, our winters have been mild, without great storms in the south.
But the volcanos are calm now. And Ullanoth's twin gales . . . might they act
as inadvertent precursors? If our father's dream was indeed warning that Hammer
and Anvil storms are sweeping down from the Barren Lands—"
"But when will
they clash?" The prince's eyes glittered as he moved one finger up the
chart, northward between the promontories of Blackhorse and Eagle-roost, into
the comparative safety of Blenholme Roads. "When?"
Stergos said, "We know
a blizzard rages in Moss, and Prince Somarus and his army are trapped by heavy
snow in the northern interior. Yet it could be days before the storms reach
The
Prince Heritor's body relaxed. His hands fell into his lap and he sighed.
"In any case, we can't let such a thing influence our strategy. Tomorrow
we fight Didion. And who knows? By the time we meet the King's Grace, he may
have had another dream that will explain it all to us."
But there would be no
meeting and no explanation.
Much later, when Conrig was
finally preparing to go to bed, Stergos entered his tiny sleeping cabin without
knocking. The alchymist's robes were awry and his face streamed with tears. He
seemed unable to speak and only stood helpless until the prince took his
shoulders and shook him.
"Gossy,
what is it? What's happened?"
"Vra-Bolan just bespoke
me the news. Our father is dead, peacefully in his sleep. You are the King of
Cathra." As his younger brother stood frozen, Stergos knelt and kissed his
hand. "I—I've not yet told the others."
Conrig pulled the alchymist
to his feet. "Nor will we tell them. Not until we reach the Lord Admiral's
flagship and see Father's body with our own eyes. Only then will I be willing
to don the iron-hoop crown he wore and undertake the duties of a king."
"Oh,
Con. He never was able to sing his Deathsong!"
"He sings it somewhere.
Don't worry." He drew the weeping alchymist to the cabin door and thrust
him into the corridor. "Leave me alone now, Gossy. Pray for our father's
spirit, but pray especially hard for me."
When
Conrig was alone again he took a bottle of malt liquor from his trussing
coffer, filled a beaker to the brim, and downed it, hoping to silence the gush
of speculation that rose like a black tide in his brain. But the remedy was
futile and so he drank more, cursing beneath his breath, and finally fell
insensible into the cabin's mean, narrow bed.
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