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thirty-one
The
volcanos of
In
their toplofty way, the Lights had been appreciative of Beynor's effort. They
granted his increasingly impudent requests and withheld their anger, even
though he misused his Great Stone for petty purposes.
But now
the forbearance of the Beaconfolk was wearing thin.
The
noxious eruptions were over, the heavens had cleared, and the Great Lights once
again blazed supreme in the Northland, paling the stars of winter as they
basked in the awe and admiration of monsters and men alike.
Yet
here came that tedious boy again, with more inappropriate demands!
Secure
in his royal apartment, certain that Ulla would not violate the grace period
she'd given him, Beynor held high the finger wearing the moonstone
ring. He uttered the two incantations and awaited the green flares of
fulfillment and the necessary pain.
Nothing
happened. Instead, windspoken words roared unexpectedly in his mind.
CADAY
AN RUDAY?
He was
taken aback. Not since his activation of Weathermaker over three years ago had
the Coldlight Army asked him the ominous ritual question. He replied as
confidently as he was able, using the language of the Salka to praise the
Lights and abase himself before getting down to business.
"Great Skylords! I ask
two favors of your Weathermaker stone. The first is fair southerly winds in
WHAT YOU ASK IS
INCONVENIENT AND UNTIMELY CONTRARY TO THE
"But
necessary! I beseech you! I conjure you! . . . Please?"
PLAY YOUR SILLY HUMAN
WARGAMES WITH LESSER SIGILS. YOU ARE TESTING OUR PATIENCE SEVERELY REMEMBER
THAT WE KNOW YOUR NAME, BEYNOR SON OF LINNDAL!
"Then—then fulfill my
second conjuration, at least. The most important one. It should be an easy
thing for you. An insignificant drain on your mighty powers."
Silence.
Heartened, he lifted the
moonstone ring once again and spoke the spell: "Let a black
thundercloud form above my sister Ullanoth, wherever she maybe. Let its
whirling winds create an imbalance between the humors of the earth and air, so
that a colossal stroke of lightning reduces her body to its elements and
scatters them, never to be reassembled!"
WHY?
Why? . . . The terror and
sense of impending disaster he had thus far been able to repress welled up and
threatened to unman him. He took a long moment to formulate his reply. He had
to make_ them understand!
"Because Ullanoth dares
to use your magical gifts against me. I am the Conjure-King of Moss, the true
heir to Rothbannon. My sister threatens my life and my reign. I can only be
safe if she is dead."
Again there was the long,
portentous silence. When the response came, it was unexpectedly reasonable in
tone.
YOU TOOK THE CROWN OF
MOSS BY REGICIDE AND PATRICIDE, DID YOU
NOT?
What
should he say? The Lights weren't human! They themselves never scrupled to kill
persons who offended them. Why should they feel bound by the moral constraints
of mankind? Would the simple truth suffice to justify him?
"Great Lords of Light—my poor father the Conjure-King
was afflicted by madness, subject to drastic swings of emotion. His will swayed
like a willow in a gale. He affirmed me as his heir to the throne, but he might
well have changed his mind the next day—"
SO YOU SLEW HIM. AND NOW
YOU ASK US TO COLLUDE IN YOUR CRIME, KILLING YOUR LEGITIMATE RIVAL—SHE WHO
SHARED YOUR MOTHER'S WOMB, WHO HAS NEVER YET USED OUR SIGILS IGNOBLY, WHO HAS
EVEN VOWED NEVER TO TAKE YOUR LIFE.
"Has she indeed?"
Beynor cried out. "The more fool she! But what does my life matter if I
lose my crown to that perfidious whore and stand despised before my people and
the world?"
Even as this furious and
despairing outburst of his rang on the wind, he knew he'd finally gone too far.
The
Lights laughed.
WHAT DOES IT MATTER,
BEYNOR OF MOSS? YOU ARE ABOUT TO FIND OUT! BUT BECAUSE IT AMUSES US TO SOW
UNCERTAINTY AMONG HUMANITY, AND BECAUSE AN ACTION OF YOURS, ALTHOUGH ALL
UNWITTING, ONCE REDOUNDED TO OUR SPLENDOR, WE WILL LEAVE YOU WITH A SINGLE
TOKEN OF OUR MERCY—WHICH YOU ARE FOR-BIDDEN TO USE! AFTER REQUITING YOU LESS
PUNISHMENT THAN YOU DESERVE.
They
struck him down then with a crushing avalanche of pain, and he thought he was
finished, damned to suffer forever.
Instead
he woke at length to find himself lying on the bearskin hearth rug of his
sitting room, nearly frozen to the bone and feeble as a nursling babe, but otherwise
unharmed. Icy drafts rattled the windowpanes and fluttered the undrawn drapes.
Outside, the Beacons rioted in the black evening sky, casting faint shadows on
the walls of the room. Aside from that flickering cold brilliance, there was no
other illumination save a few dying coals in the fireplace.
No
reassuring emerald glow from the Fortress moonstones. The tall monstrance that
had held both of them was empty.
Still
sitting on the rug, he raised his right hand and discovered that Weathermaker
was gone from his finger. The twin golden neckchains where Shapeshifter and
Subtle Armor had hung now lay tangled uselessly against the skin of his breast.
"I have nothing
left," he whispered, knowing even as he voiced the self-pitying statement
that it wasn't true. He still possessed his considerable natural talent. The Lights
had not deprived him of that. But it was insufficient to save him. When Ulla
confronted him tomorrow, as she'd promised to do, she'd know instantly that his
sigils were gone. That he was helpless to oppose her.
With great effort he rose to
his feet, took blocks of peat from the basket beside the fireplace, and used
tongs to set the fuel carefully among the embers. Flames blazed up almost at
once, warming him and casting more light about the room. Something made of
metal gleamed on the shadowed mantel: the handsome platinum case that had held
the Seven Stones of Rothbannon. He gave a despondent laugh, reached for it,
opened the catch, and cried out in astonishment.
All of the small velvet
nests were empty except one. It held a peculiar amulet carved in the shape of a
twisted ribbon with a single surface and a single edge, the only sigil of its
kind ever fashioned. The Unknown Potency was still lifeless, but it reflected
faint intriguing glints from the fire.
We will leave you with a
single token of our mercy, which you are forbidden to use
"But what good is it,
then?" he groaned. "Where is the mercy?"
The answer stole into his
mind.
Over and over again, from
their earliest childhood, Beynor and his sister had been told the tale of how
Rothbannon had received his wonder-working sigils from a certain Salka of the
Dawntide Isles—a venerable, high-ranking shaman reviled by his fellows for
having been too faint-hearted to activate the Unknown Potency himself, who had
nevertheless, for some perverse reason of his own, given the enigmatic Great
Stone and six others to a human sorcerer.
Would those monsters, driven
from their original home by encroaching humans, welcome one who restored their
lost treasure to them?
His friend Arowann, of the
Darkling Tribe, might know!
He
composed himself and sent out a call on the wind, but there was no reply,
perhaps because the amphibious being and his kin were fast asleep in their
subterranean lair among the frozen
I can't
wait until tomorrow to bespeak Arowann, he thought in a panic. Ulla will come
for me! I don't dare waste a single minute.
He'd have to try the others.
It was a risk—the brutes could play him false, knowing he was helpless now—but
he had no other choice.
He bespoke the Salka of the
Dawntide Isles, begging the attention of the Master Shaman Kalawnn, who had
dismissed his earlier plea for advice and heartlessly told him to grow up
before attempting high sorcery.
Somewhat
to his surprise, there was an answer.
Speak,
boy.
Insolent as ever, the
conceited troll! But at least the creature seemed willing to listen.
Kalawnn made no comment as
Beynor poured out a frank description of his predicament, then offered to
return the Unknown in exchange for sanctuary. As an additional incentive—and in
hopes of preserving his life after handing over the sigil to the monsters—the
boy-king spoke of his knowledge of Darasilo's trove of ancient moonstones
hidden somewhere in Cala and his opinion that the disgraced Cathran alchymist
Vra-Kilian, now imprisoned in Zeth Abbey, possessed two books that might reveal
hitherto unknown secrets of Coldlight sorcery.
"Kilian still has
reason to be friendly toward me," Beynor said eagerly. "If you grant
me your protection, Master Kalawnn, I'll not only give the Unknown Potency to
you, but also do all in my power to persuade the alchymist to share his knowledge
with us. He hates Conrig of Cathra from the depths of his soul. Who can say
what fruit an alliance with Kilian might bear?"
Beynor had said all he could
safely say. Now his fate rested with the Salka Master Shaman. He waited for a
response, and the time seemed to stretch interminably.
Finally
Kalawnn said: Do you still have the large ship gifted to you by the princes
of Didion?
"Yes, for all the good
it is to me. The barque's name is Ambergris. She's moored in the
Listen
to me, boy. Dress in your warmest garments, go to the vessel, and get rid of
any humans who are there. Is that clear? You must be alone on the ship. "But Ambergris needs nearly two hundred
men to crew her!"
The
inhuman windvoice sneered at him. Do you wish to live? "Yes,"
he replied humbly. "Yes, Master Kalawnn." Then do as I say, and
leave all the rest to me.
From her hiding place in the
topmost chamber of Holt Mallburn's deserted Wizards' Tower, where she rested
invisible under Concealer's spell, Ullanoth watched her brother through Subtle
Loophole and smiled.
Let him go off in his empty
ship propelled by monsters. Let him think him-self safe from her, and let the
Salka do as they pleased with him, poor gullible child! It was as good a
solution as she could hope for now. In time, she'd find out what Beynor and
Kilian Blackhorse had connived at together, discover the secret of Darasilo's
moonstone trove, and scry out whatever mischief the Dawntide Salka decided
upon.
Meanwhile, she intended to
conjure her own Weathermaker three times, in ways that she hoped would not
offend the Lights: to send Conrig's ship south, to dissolve the storm
frustrating the Tarnian mercenary fleet, and to conjure a blizzard to trap the
force of Prince Somarus in Boarsden Castle, so that he might not soon threaten
the occupation of Holt Mallburn. None of those requests demanded weather that
was inappropriate to this time of year. North winds, precisely directed, would
take care of everything.
Her Weathermaker debt to the
Lights was still a light one, and she'd pay it gladly. Perhaps it might
incapacitate her for a day, even two—but she'd be safe here in the tower,
thanks to Concealer. When she recovered, she would Send her-self to Royal
Fenguard dressed in regal garments. The Glaumerie Guild would by then be
frantic at Beynor's abrupt disappearance. Her own reasonable proposal should
find a ready reception.
Why should Moss settle for
an infant monarch and a regency when it could set the rightful royal heiress on
its throne? An heiress, moreover, who commanded sigils more powerful than
those of the departed usurper, who could guarantee Moss First Vassal status in
Conrig Wincantor's new Sovereignty of High Blenholme, and who would in good
time bring a dowry of Cathran gold along with her!
Of course they'll accept me,
she told herself. And when my throne is secure, I'll Send myself on to Cathra
.. .
Outside
the round Wizards' Tower, the wind already blew gently out of the North.
Ullanoth went to the window that overlooked Mallburn harbor, more than a league
away, and lifted Loophole to her eye. The conquerors had restored the lights
along the quayside, and torches illuminated the dock where the captured Stippenese
merchant clipper Shearwater was tied up. The provisioning was now
complete and the ship ready to sail.
The sigil gave Ullanoth a
close view of Conrig, his Heart Companions, Vra-Stergos, and their armigers
approaching the quay on horseback. The squire named Deveron Austrey rode
unobtrusively among the other boys. She scrutinized his person with the
greatest of care. There was nothing at all unusual about him—saving only his
eyes, still dulled by enormous fatigue but betraying a wild talent so powerful
that it even rendered him imperceptible to ordinary scrying, as though he were
one of the great shamans of the Northland.
What
else might Deveron's talent be capable of?
When she had Sent herself to
Conrig and Stergos and found the young armiger with them in their quarters, she
had experienced an unsettling disturbance in her own arcane equilibrium. Some
hours earlier, moving invisibly about Holt Mallburn and taking stock of the
occupation, she had overheard rumors of how this same Deveron had played
strangely crucial roles in the taking of
Conrig was clearly using the
boy's talent for his personal advantage. It remained to be seen whether that
talent posed a danger to her .. .
She lowered Loophole with a
sigh of relief and tucked it into an inner pocket of her gown. The problem of
Deveron Austrey could wait, but Weathermaker's conjuring could not.
She had brought food with
her to the tower, and the wizards' refectory cup-board was well supplied with
all manner of drink. She supped on cold roast capon, a pear tart with cinnamon,
and mead mulled with a hot poker. The simple pallets in the wizards' cells were
unappealing places of repose, so she gathered numbers of feather ticks and
pillows into the archwizard's cozy study, where there was a padded long chair,
and made up a bed near the ceramic stove. It seemed a peculiar heating device,
fueled by charcoal and pellets of resinous heartwood; but she soon discovered
that it was a very efficient generator of heat.
She
made everything ready for the inevitable ordeal, slipped Weathermaker on her
finger, then looked out the tower window one final time. The ghostly gleam of
the aurora was just beginning to rise above the horizon to the north, and frost
whitened the palace's roofs and parapets.
Perhaps I won't need to create a magical snowstorm to maroon Somarus
after all, she thought. Nature may just do the job without Weathermaker's help!
But Conrig still needed his strong north wind, and so did the
beleagured Tarnian mercenaries. She returned to her bed and conjured the Great
Stone.
Dancing in the sky above the frigid wastes of the Barren Lands, the
Beaconfolk responded amiably to the appeals of the sorceress. Then they added a
few meteorological embellishments of their own.
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