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twenty-two
Ullanoth dreamed of them.
They were enormous: so bright, so terrible, so eager to engulf her suffering
self. Her anguish fed them in some arcane fashion, and they drank of her for
hours on end and then let her go, laughing at her relief, dancing off into the
night sky, shrinking, vanishing. Leaving only stars above her and that
marvelous freedom from excruciating pain.
Still dreaming, she lay on a
flat rock at the water's edge, dressed in a thin sendal shift, not daring to
breathe, knowing that the respite couldn't last, exposed as she was to the icy
Boreal wind that swept in from the sea. She felt gooseflesh rise and her
teeth begin to chatter, and fought not to inhale for that meant surrender. But
a terrible shudder suddenly racked her, forcing her to fill her lungs with air
so frigid that the tender membranes kindled with agony. As though this were
some perverse signal, the rest of her body started to afflict her all over
again: the pounding head, the aching muscles, the fierce gnawing in her belly.
Soon they'll be back to
feast again, she realized in despair. They gave and now they take. The balance
is in the exchange, and to submit is to survive. I willingly endure this only
for the sake of my great goal and not for his sake. Never for his sake. Never
.. .
"Never!"
she cried aloud, and at the sound of her own voice, Ullanoth woke. The cracks
between the closed shutters of the warehouse office showed a faint grey light;
it had to be nearly dawn. She had more than slept the clock around. The only
sounds were the creak of the cooling iron stove and wind sighing around the
eaves of the building. For the moment she was free of the pain of
Weathermaker's empowerment—but still not without a certain nagging discomfort.
Dazed from sleep (she had forgotten the dream), she was at a loss to understand
what was wrong with her until her guts writhed insistently, reminding her that
the Great Stone's ordeal had its ignoble aspects. There was no helping it. Weak
as she was, she'd have to go outside. With a muttered oath she emerged from her
cocoon of warmth and began to draw on clothes, stockings, and boots. Then she
took up Concealer and Interpenetrator and hung them about her neck
Invisible, she passed
through the locked and barred door that gave onto the quay and made her way
very slowly to the necessarium overhanging the water at the end of the
winesellers' pier. No trading ships were docked there. With the near-cessation
of normal commerce on account of the famine, this southernmost area of Mallburn
Quay near the great river was virtually deserted. Even the stews and taverns
were boarded up, and only a few small coaster vessels were tied at the adjacent
slips and wharves belonging to other merchants. A lamptender with a ladder,
accompanied by an armed guard, was extinguishing the tall streetlights along
the waterfront one by one.
She took care of her body's
needs, then let her disinterested gaze roam about the big harbor. She'd never
seen it at dawn, and its aspect was oddly unfamiliar. The tide was high and
the sky to the east, above a fog bank at the mouth of
The princess hobbled back
toward her sanctuary, stopping frequently to rest, wishing she had thought to
bring some sort of walking stick Every step brought increasing pain in her
legs, and her head had begun to throb, perhaps from lack of food. She would
scratch up a simple meal of biscuit, dried meat, and wine, eat it in bed, then sleep
again even though she knew she would suffer while dreaming. The debt must be
paid, and as quickly as possible.
Behind
the semicircular quay, the rising expanse of
You pathetic thing! she
thought. Wobbly as a newborn lamb, and about as dangerous! How can you hope to
help Conrig take this huge city? All of the plans they had made earlier were
rendered useless by her disability. The Cathran army was due to arrive in two
days, but she would hardly have regained her full strength by then. Who would
open the gate for Conrig at the great bridge on the River Malle? Who would
admit his force to
Yesterday, bespeaking
Stergos before empowering the new sigil, she had been optimistic. But she had
badly underestimated the price Weathermaker would extract from her already
weakened body.
I'm no good to him now! The
thought came to her without volition as she leaned against the wall of the
winesellers' warehouse and stared blankly at the harbor. His invasion will fail
through my fault. He'll either die in battle or retreat to Cathra in defeat,
and meanwhile the Royal Navy of Didion will sail south, link up with the
Continental fleet, and
Navy!
Comprehension hit her like a
thunderbolt. She'd been too thickheaded to appreciate what her naked eyes had
already shown her: the forty-odd warships that had been moored in the harbor
and tied up at large piers on the northern end of the quay were no longer
there. Conrig's slim hope that his invading army might arrive in time to stop
the fleet from moving against Cathra was dashed. The armada of Crown Prince
Honigalus had sailed on the dawn tide with a fair wind to carry it out of the
bay.
I must warn him!
She re-entered the warehouse
and collapsed on her improvised bed, clawing at Concealer and Interpenetrator
to get them away from her body, sparing herself that insignificant discomfort
at least. But the consequences of the empowerment once again began to overwhelm
her, even before she fell fully asleep. The stabbing in her belly, the
dizziness, the crushing weakness, the irresistible compulsion to yield to
unconsciousness and pay the Great Lights their due of pain .. .
I can't! Not yet!
She
fought with all her will to remain awake, demanding that her body obey.
Focusing whatever mental strength remained to her on that single need, she
cried out and felt her muscles convulse, then subside into a deadly languor—no
longer hurting.
Oh, yes! Thank you, Mother!
Her breathing had become
shallow and rapid. Fever burnt at her temples and flooded down her neck,
engulfing her body, but she was awake. She reached for a nearby beaker of
water. Her trembling hand upset the pottery container, causing it to tip and
spill its precious contents onto the dirty wooden floor.
Very well, forget that.
Concentrate on windspeaking the message! It would be impossible to reach
Vra-Sulkorig in
Oh, Moon Mother, have mercy.
I can't see him.
Try as she might, she could
not bring Stergos's gentle round face to mind, much less the face of the other
alchymist accompanying the army. Even her memory of Conrig was dimmed to
nullity by her dazed brain. The realization sent a gush of stark terror through
the pain-free lethargy that temporarily sheltered her.
Mother, what am Ito do?
There was only one hope. She
could attempt a general outcry on the wind. It was a form of bespeaking that
might be overheard by any adept within range, more tenuous than directed
communication, susceptible to blockage by dense matter such as solid rock. The
brick wall of the warehouse would be relatively transparent to it, but not Holt
Mallburn's granite bastions, nor the keeps of the other Didionite castles
within range. She must make the message brief yet unmistakable. The enemy would
probably not overhear her, but if Conrig's magickers had already crossed the
massif of the
I'll put all the power I
have left into the one cry, she decided. For now, it's all I can do.
The two
Brothers of Zeth, relegated to the Cathran army's rearguard to protect them
from danger, were still in the bowl-shaped summit heath, shielded from the
flimsy windcry by the intervening rocks. Prince Conrig, riding with Cloudfell
and Catclaw so as to be in the fore of the assault, possessed too meager a
talent to grasp the message. The only one who heard was Snudge—far ahead of the
others, being guided by spunkies to Castle Redfern in the first light of dawn.
That faintest of bespoken cries came to him:
Warships
gone.
"Codders!" The boy
hauled on Primmie's reins, and the mule halted so abruptly that he nearly flew
over its head.
The handful of dancing
sparks that surrounded the mounted boy began to cheep and squeak like a nest of
disturbed starlings. Unlike their ruler, they did not speak the language of
humankind, although an adept could understand their windspeech readily enough.
"Oh,
be still!" Snudge hissed at the tiny beings.
He closed his eyes, slumping
in the saddle, and attempted to follow the strange cry back to its origin, but
it was less a thread than an amorphous web, and might have come from anywhere.
After that failure he tried to windsearch
He bespoke Stergos, who was
dozing in his saddle alongside Vra-Doman Carmorton, waiting for his turn to
take to the trail.
"My lord, wake up!
Don't disturb your companion. Wake up, I say, and respond to me stealthily in
windspeech. It's Snudge. I believe I've received a message from Princess
Ullanoth!"
There was a silence on the
wind, broken by an incoherent murmur that eventually resolved itself into a
bespoken reply.
Snudge?
What are you telling me?
"Lord Stergos, I heard
a peculiar undirected message on the wind: Warships gone. I believe it
can only have come from the princess. We know she is very weak after empowering
her Weathermaker. Perhaps she could only transmit those two words, without
aiming them at a specific person. I think she meant to tell us that the
Didionite fleet has set sail for the south. You must alert the Royal Alchymist
at
Oh, Blessed Zeth. This is
dreadful! I'd better press to the front of the column and tell the prince and
see what he thinks. He hoped we might reach Holt Mallburn in time to stop the
fleet
"My
lord, no offense. Stop waffling! Tell His Grace later if you must, but pass on
the information to Vra-Sulkorig at Cala without delay. Is that clear?"
The
reply was surprisingly meek. Quite clear, my boy. Thank God you were able to
receive it ... You know, I'm praying for the success of your own mission. "Thank
you, my lord."
I
also pray —I mean—oh, Deveron! Are you certain that your scheme will enable you
to accomplish your task without shedding the blood of Redfern's wind adepts?
"As
I told you, with luck—and with the special goods I packed on my mule—I'll
manage."
I
know my brother charged you with a warrior's duty, but he's a ruthless man and
you're—ah, you're
"I'm Conrig's liege
man. Farewell, Doctor. If you do speak to His Grace, tell him he can depend on
me."
Snudge opened his eyes to
the ghostly mountainside and thumped Primmie gently in the ribs. Obediently,
the loaded mule continued downslope on rag-wrapped hooves. It was an
intelligent beast for all its bad temper, and it had quickly learned to follow
the parade of five glowing specks that wafted just ahead of it, floating a foot
or so above the ground.
Queen
Cataldise opened the door to the king's bedchamber when she heard the gentle
scratching. "Vra-Sulkorig. It's rather early. Has something important
happened?"
The Acting Royal Alchymist's
face lit up at the sound of notes being plucked expertly from a lute. "His
Grace is awake, then?" The time was shortly after dawn.
The queen sighed.
"Revising his Deathsong again. He slept poorly last night and did not wish
to waste the time. I've also had very little sleep. What do you want?"
"I
do have significant news, Your Grace."
The lute music stopped.
"Well, come and tell me about it, man!" growled the king.
Sulkorig approached the
enormous bed. The ailing monarch was propped up on a pile of pillows, holding
the stringed instrument. His lap table held parchment and writing materials,
and he was surrounded by ranks of lighted candelabra on silver-gilt stands.
"Lord
Stergos has received a two-word windspoken message: Warships gone. He
believes it came from Princess Ullanoth in the Didionite capital city, but
can-not be sure. The lady herself is supposedly in ill health after
accomplishing some
notable
feat of magic. The Doctor Arcanorum believes we must take the message very
seriously and presume that the war fleet of Crown Prince Honigalus has set sail
from Holt Mallburn and intends to attack Gala."
Olmigon nodded slowly. He
began to retune one of the lute strings, picking at it in a finicky fashion.
"Did you have our own Brothers scry up Didion way?"
"Your Grace, the
distance is too far, even for our most talented windwatchers working in unison.
If the winds are favorable to them, the enemy ships might reach the vicinity of
the Vigilant Isles in four to five days." The alchymist tactfully
accommodated the king's failing memory. "Didion's fleet strength, as you
know, is around forty men o' war, with at least eighteen triple-tier barques
carrying up to sixty guns apiece and more than twenty two-decker frigates with
twenty-six guns or more. All of the heavy warships might not have sailed, of
course."
Olmigon finished his tuning
and strummed an ominous minor chord. "What about the damned
Continentals?"
"Teams of adepts riding
small sloops have been plying the Dolphin Channel, keeping watch twenty-four
hours a day, as closely as their powers allow. So far, there seems to be no
suspicious movement of ships from ports in Stippen or Foraile."
"And the Tarnian
mercenaries?"
Sulkorig's grave expression
brightened. "There, at least, we have good tidings. I didn't wish to
disturb your rest unnecessarily, but late last night we were bespoken by the
shaman of Sealord Yons Stormchild. Our grain ships have made port, and he has
ordered twenty well-armed frigates, carrying extra supplies of tarnblaze, to
sail south on the dawn tide."
"Thank God!" cried
Cataldise.
Olmigon glowered. "You
should have come and told me—whatever the hour."
"Of course, Your Grace.
From now on, it will be done." The wizard's eyes slid reproachfully toward
those of the queen, who looked innocent. On her orders, the king had remained
undisturbed.
"See that our captains
at sea are informed."
"It's already done,
Your Grace."
"Very well, you may
leave us."
The
alchymist bowed and made his exit. King Olmigon gave his wife a level stare and
then bent over his lute, playing a brief, haunting melody as nicely as any
court minstrel. By ancient custom he was forbidden to sing the song aloud until
the time that he felt death approaching. "What do you think?" he
said. "Isn't that tune better than the old one?"
She had seated herself in an
easy chair near the candles and opened a book. Now she looked up at him with
tears glinting in her eyes. "My love, you must satisfy yourself. The song
is your own to compose, and I know you are obliged to do it. But the thought of
your singing it breaks my heart."
"Sweet Catty!" The
king chuckled. "I need a more stringent music critic for an honest
opinion. Bring Maudrayne to see me later today. She's never shy about telling
me what she thinks."
The queen gave a little
start. "But . . . our daughter-in-law is ill, as you know. A weakness of
the chest brought on by the long journey to Zeth. She still cannot leave her
apartment."
"Then I'll go visit
her. I'm feeling lively enough today. You come, too. We can all have tea
together. Why, I haven't seen the dear girl in over a week."
"No!" Cataldise
said wildly. "I mean—she is in no condition to receive us. The alchymists
have forbidden her visitors."
Olmigon
frowned, setting his lute aside. "If Maudie is so seriously ill, why
wasn't I told? You know how I feel about her. What the hell's wrong?" The
queen burst into tears.
"Stop that!" the
king thundered. "Madam, tell me at once what ails the Crown
Princess!"
After much sniffling into
her lace handkerchief, Queen Cataldise confessed what had been done on Conrig's
orders. "Maudrayne threatened to leave him, to run away to
"What
other woman?"
"Ullanoth of
Moss," the queen admitted reluctantly. "But Con assured me it wasn't
so! He's a faithful husband who only wishes to protect Maudrayne from her own
folly."
The king lowered himself to
his pillows, groaning. "The witch! Of course it would be the witch."
He hauled himself up again, eyes burning. "Who's giving Maudie the vile
potions? That sour-faced old prune Sovanna Ironside?"
"Stergos
gave Lady Sovanna appropriate medicines for the princess before he left the
palace. He assured me they were entirely harmless. Vra-Sulkorig has also
attended Maudrayne when it seemed . . . when she was too apathetic to eat. But
she is in excellent health now, except for being languid and disinclined to
cause trouble."
"Maudie? Languid? Great
God, woman! The drugging must stop at once. I command it."
"She'll run away." The queen's dolorous face took
on an obstinate expression. "That must not happen. I promised Conrig that
his wife would be here when he returned victorious."
"Then lock her in her
bloody chambers," Olmigon raged. "But no more filthy poisons. Swear
it to me!"
More tears began to trickle
from the queen's eyes. She nodded blindly. "I swear on my soul that I'll
do as you say. But we can't allow her to run away to
Olmigon's face had gone red
and his eyes bulged in fury. "Humiliate Conrig? What about poor Maude's
humiliation if our son lied about Ullanoth? What about—" He broke off with
a sudden cry, more a cough than a grunt, clutching at his upper arm. When he
was able to speak again his voice was querulous and nearly inaudible.
"Catty. Oh, God, how it hurts."
Queen
Cataldise leapt up from her chair and came to him. "Husband?"
But he
had fallen back onto the pillows, his eyes half-closed and his lips gone blue.
The queen fled from the room in a panic, screaming for the alchymists.
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