Previous | Table of Contents | Next
twelve
Louring.
clouds hid the sky over Moss, and decrepit old
Earlier,
before she had Sent herself to Prince Conrig in Cala, she had her trusted slave
Wix build a goodly fire in her sitting room and batten up the shutters on all
the windows. Now she went to the hearth to savor the warmth of the glowing
peat. A pot of heated wine with cinnamon and darnel hung waiting on a crane,
and she helped herself to a soothing cupful. She had suffered from an unquiet
mind often of late—and no wonder, with all her plots and stratagems to keep in
order, like a juggler with too many duck-eggs in the air.
Beynor's
unexpected return to the castle that evening had been a most unwelcome
development. His magnificent new barque, a gift from the two princes of Didion,
had appeared in the estuary without warning, masked by Fortress sorcery until
the last moment. He had rebuffed her invitation to supper and gone immediately
to see Conjure-King Linndal, doubtless to crow about his diplomatic coup on the
Continent.
She had
hoped her brother's voyage home would take a few days longer so that she might
sort out the spunkies without risking his interference. Well, there was no
helping it now. With Beynor here, even though he was still closeted with their
father inside the spell of his Fortress sigil, it wasn't safe to summon the
little creatures to the castle. Since they refused to engage in long windspeech
conversations for fear of attracting their Salka enemies, she'd have to endure
an uncomfortable journey into the fens in the middle of the night.
Ullanoth
finished off the cup of hot wine, enjoying the way the spicy fumes went to her
head and eased both anxiety and the perpetual minor discomfort of the guardian
moonstone. She let her mind dwell briefly on her hopes for the future. They
would succeed, she and Conrig. In a short time the Sovereignty would control
the island. And she would control the Sovereign .. .
She
went to her bedchamber for outdoor clothing. On a stand beside the bed was a
little ever-burning lamp that she kept filled with the finest scented oil. It
illuminated a portrait painted on precious narwhal ivory and framed in solid
gold, a crowned woman with fair hair drawn tightly back. Her face was thin to
the point of gauntness, and her black eyes enormous and bright with dangerous
talent. Only her smile was beautiful, sweetly tender, as if about to kiss a
beloved child.
Ullanoth
inclined her head to her mother's portrait, then found and put on waterproof
boots and took from her wardrobe a hooded sheared-seal robe that was both warm
and light of weight. Back in her workroom, she removed Concealer and
Interpenetrator from the gold-mesh purse where she kept all of her moonstones
save Fortress and carefully conjured them into readiness. As commanded, they
glowed brightly and were active only when in contact with her bare hands—and
hurt her only then, as the Lights had decreed. She wrapped the amulets
separately in black satin squares, put them back into her belt-purse, and
donned sturdy leather gloves.
She
glanced about the capacious chamber, reluctant to leave now that her brother
was back in residence, even though the place would be safe enough. Her Sending
couch was here, her books, the sheets of parchment with her maps and
battle-plans, and benches and shelves crowded with arcane equipment. In the
center of the workroom stood an iron candlestick nearly two ells in height,
holding a waxen blob. Affixed in it was the green-glowing plaque of moonstone
called Fortress, which shielded all rooms on this top floor of the
She
left without locking her door. There was no need. Then she unwrapped Concealer,
slipped it into her glove, and spoke its spell. Immediately, she vanished from
sight.
A
spiral staircase of rusting ironwork led from her tower rooms to the second
floor of the keep, where the regal apartments, presence chamber, and cavernous
throne room were situated. She descended the once-grandiose flight of broad
steps giving access to the great hall, meeting no one on the way.
When I
am Conjure-Queen, Ullanoth promised herself, all that will change.
She
hurried through the gloomy great hall, where the freeborn servants were long
since asleep on their pallets, down the staircase to the forebuilding, which
was guarded but not locked, and out into the torchlit inner ward. Rothbannon's
Marvel, a spectacular mechanical clock mounted above the massive gatehouse,
showed a quarter past three in the morning.
She
looked back toward the keep and saw lights shining in the royal chambers
above. The occupants were shielded by Beynor's own Fortress sigil. For a moment
she contemplated Sending herself to them and forcing a confrontation. Her Great
Stone had the power to penetrate Fortress's guardian spell, and
Inter-penetrator would make the strongest door as easy to pierce as smoke. But
she discarded the notion at once. She was not yet ready to reveal her own
powerful weaponry to the enemy. Beynor believed that her sigils were only
capable of defending her and performing minor sorcery. She'd taken care not to
contradict his misapprehension, and now was not the time to disabuse him.
No one
was about as she hurried past the quiet cookhouse, bakery, and stables and
approached the guardhouse beside the inner gate, where special caution would be
needed to avoid detection. She paused in the heavy shadows and slipped
Interpenetrator into the palm of her other glove. Mentally, she spoke its
enabling spell, gritting her teeth. Fortunately, the pain associated with the
magic of the two minor sigils was not too severe.
Concealer
had enabled her to vanish completely, except for a faint shadow cast by the
light of the guards' peat brazier. Three armed men were gathered around it,
warming themselves and gossiping in low voices. They never noticed the shadow
drift past. Another pair of sentries stood on either side of the lowered inner
portcullis next to the ropes of the alarm bells. They seemed half-asleep and
ignored the almost inaudible sound of footsteps approaching the black iron
grating ... and the shadow that melted through the heavy metal without
hindrance, then conquered the outer portcullis with equal ease.
She
continued through the barbican, seeped past its barred oaken door, and
traversed the outer ward, which was deserted except for sentries at the
torchlit towngate and watergate. She approached the latter, keeping close to
the wall to obscure her shadow, and used magic to make the four men on duty
sneeze. As they were distracted, she drifted through the closed gate like a
wraith, went cautiously down the long flight of stairs that wound through the
rocks, and came finally onto the landing stage along the
She
deactivated Interpenetrator and tucked it away. The shield of invisibility hurt
hardly at all. A number of skiffs were chained at the far end of the landing.
She unlocked the cleanest-looking one with-a tap of her finger, climbed into
it, and caused it to move rapidly upstream.
With
the moon down and the sky mostly cloudy, it was very dark. Quick flicks of her
windsight reassured her that no one was watching the "empty" boat
mysteriously breasting the sluggish current. Mosslanders didn't often go abroad
at night, for fear of the Salka cannibals and other nocturnal horrors. Rothbannon's
clock tolled the half-hour, and she heard sentinels on the battlements of the
castle faintly calling "All's well." From overhead came the mellow,
hornlike calls of migrating swans, abandoning the fens for their winter refuges
on the Southern Continent even though the first frost had yet to touch Moss.
The only other sound was the chuckling of the river against the driving hull of
the rickety boat. Patches of mist hung over the water.
When
she was beyond the small capital city of
Ullanoth
stood up, threw back her fur hood, and called out on the wind. Shanakin! Tyarn
na tean gelain! Bi isti!
She
waited impatiently. A light breeze, freighted with chill, began to blow out of
the north, parting the wisps of mist, rustling the leaves of the marsh plants,
and hinting of the arctic cold that would eventually spread down from the Great
Fen, locking the land in winter fastness. Even with the weather changes brought
about by the Wolf's Breath, the snows would start in Moss at the beginning of
the Ice Moon. Dilapidated old Royal Fenguard would be swathed in white
crystalline hoarfrost, even more beautiful than it had been in the day of the
first Conjure-King—at least until the spring thaw unclothed its shabbiness.
Before
then I'll rule, she told herself. Father couldn't deny her the succession if
she confronted him with the power and wealth of the Sovereignty . . . and her
own collection of activated sigils, which she was confident would overwhelm
those now controlled by Beynor, that vainglorious little maggot!
Her
detestable (but hugely talented) younger brother had been the first sorcerer
since Rothbannon to successfully dare the Great Lights, and in doing so he had
deprived Ullanoth of her royal birthright. Undaunted by the appalling fate of
their mother, and with King Linndal distracted by periodic attacks of insanity,
the youth had delved recklessly into Beaconfolk magic without hesitation or hindrance.
By the time he was fourteen, he had activated five of the Seven Stones of
Rothbannon kept in the custody of the Glaumerie Guild, in spite of the
horrified wizards' best efforts to restrain him. His success emboldened him to
demand the throne that was rightfully Ullanoth's. Their father, in his lucid
moments, was not only delighted with Beynor's prowess at high sorcery, but also
approved the boy's plot to subvert Didion and restore Moss's lost glory.
Ullanoth
had at first despaired of equalling her brother's accomplishments and regaining
what she felt was her birthright. The ruler of Moss had traditionally nominated
his or her successor, although the eldest child had almost always ascended to
the throne in the past. But how could she hope to oppose Beynor, who could
command the Coldlight Army? He had brought four minor sigils and one Great
Stone—Weathermaker—to life, while she was capable only of conventional magic.
He felt free to insult her openly, invade her dreams, and torment her with ugly
hints of what he would do to her when he became king. Ullanoth had sunk into
despondency and even considered ending her life before she fell completely into
her brother's power.
Then
fate, or perhaps the benevolent Lady Moon, intervened on her behalf. One spring
night, just after Beynor had miraculously deflected the Wolf's Breath away from
Moss with the newly empowered Weathermaker (nearly killing him-self at the same
time that he earned the rapturous approbation of the mad king and the Guild),
Ullanoth dreamed of her late mother, Taspiroth. It was as if the beloved ivory
portrait had come to life and roused the sleeping princess by taking hold of
her hand.
"Mother!"
Ullanoth had cried joyfully, sitting up in bed. "You're alive!"
"Not
in your world, dear child. You're dreaming—and when you wake I will be gone.
Nevertheless, what I'm about to tell you is true, and you must do as I
say."
Stricken
with sorrow and fear, Ullanoth could only nod her head.
"Your
brother has a heart dedicated only to himself," Conjure-Queen Taspiroth
continued, "and he must not be allowed to prevail. You, my dear Ulla, are
to rule Moss, and to do so you will have to conquer Beynor. However, I adjure
you under pain of damnation not to kill him, nor even to harm a single hair of
his head. Your brother will encompass his own doom after fulfilling the role he
is destined to play in the history of our magical
In the
dream, Ullanoth gave protest. "But, Mother, how can I conquer Beynor
without harming him? In fact, how can I manage the task at all, since he
conjures the Lights and I'm helpless before their power?"
"I
have a gift for you. Use it with the greatest of care, only when absolutely
necessary, and all will come about as I have said."
The
queen told her what she must do to find the gift and then kissed her on the
brow, whereupon Ullanoth woke to the sound of spring birdsong. Most of the
dream was still vivid in her mind; the only part she would forget was the
implication that Beynor would rule Moss before her.
The
next day, dressing herself in fusty old garments and concealing her bright
hair, the princess had crept from the castle, stolen a small boat, and gone
alone into the trackless swamp called the Little Fen, west of the castle.
There, on a tiny rocky islet, she found the lightning-blasted skeleton of a
dead willow, exactly as Queen Taspiroth had said.
Hidden
among its roots was a rotting chest containing seven inactive sigils.
From
her arcane studies, she realized that each one was capable of being conjured in
a different mode of enchantment. Like the sigils owned by Beynor, four were
minor and three were Great Stones capable of formidable sorcery. Furthermore,
the means of activating them was contained in books within the Guild archives,
freely accessible to all members of Moss's royal family.
Remembering
how her poor mother had been destroyed by the Lights after bungling the
empowerment of one of Rothbannon's Great Stones, Ullanoth had decided then and
there against activating any of these new-found sigils out of mere curiosity.
She would bring them to life only as needed, as the Conjure-Queen had advised.
She
would certainly rule Moss. But why stop there?
In the
years that followed, Ullanoth plotted her own strategy well. Studies of island
history had taught her that magic alone was not enough to found an enduring empire,
and neither were military leadership nor political astuteness, taken by
themselves. At least two of those factors were necessary for any chance of
success; and the odds would shoot up vastly if one possessed all three.
She had
looked beyond her younger brother's puny scheme to gain the allegiance of
Didion's princelings. With the Great Stone called Sender, she possessed a way
to enlist Conrig Wincantor himself in her great enterprise. The heir to the
throne of Cathra was a brilliant and dangerous man, and one not to be trusted.
But she was confident that she could manipulate him, at least for the time
being. And later
What
was that?
Shanakin?
Is it you?
A swarm
of fuzzy yellow sparks came meandering through the misty rushes, taking its own
sweet time reaching her. One of the sparks was considerably brighter than the
others and had a blue-white, starlike center. She deactivated Concealer and
became visible. After a few minutes the bright spark separated itself from the
swarm, bobbed over the open water, and hovered in mid-air beside the boat,
greeting her in her own language:
"Princess
Ulla. It's been many a moon. May I presume that the time has come for taking
action?"
"You
may," she replied. "Mounted warriors are on the move in small groups
down in northeastern Cathra, heading for Castle Vanguard in the foothills of
the
"What
about befogging the mountain passes and the road to Holt Mallburn in Didion? Do
you still want that done?"
"Later,
Shanakin, in less than two weeks. I'll give you plenty of notice, but your
people should be ready."
"The
weather remains unseasonably warm in the south because of the winds protecting
Moss from the Wolf's Breath. But the volcanic eruptions are diminishing. As
they do this, the magical winds called up by your brother will die away and
arctic air will sweep down from the Barren Lands, freezing our misty
cover."
"If
this seems likely to happen, I will use my own strong magic to hold the winter
cold at bay. Just do your job as we agreed, and leave the rest to me."
"And
our reward, Princess?" The spark flared greedily.
"As
I promised, it will be given you within the Didionite capital city. There will
be plenty for all to share."
"There'd
better be!" said the spark, with a wicked little laugh. "Don't even
think of cheating us of our due. Remember what happened to Conjure-King
Lisfallon, your grandsire, who thought he could trifle with us. Many
Mosslanders now thoughtlessly consider my people to be impotent and of no
account. Beware! We may be only Small Lights, but we have our ways."
"Of
course you do," she said smoothly, "and excellent they are. Farewell
for now, my friend."
"Farewell
yourself, Princess. May the Salka monsters trip and break their tusks as they
pursue you, and the Beacons fail to find your shadow!"
The
spark zipped away to join its fellows, and the swarm of them faded into the
night.
Ullanoth
sighed and sat down again in the skiff. Insolent little hellspawn! She hoped
there'd be enough prey left alive in famine-ridden
Well.
Time she went back to the castle and to bed. It was devilishly damp and chilly
out here. Another cup of hot spiced wine would be welcome, and then she'd have
to find out what Beynor had been up to with the king. The two of them had spent
an unusually long time together.
Ullanoth
glanced in the direction of home and gave a soft gasp of surprise.
She
sent her windsight soaring and found that the entire place seemed to be awake.
People were rushing about, some frightened and others grim-faced as they
streamed out of their various sleeping quarters and hurried toward the great
hall, which was thronged. Many of the people bore rushlights or torches, since
the usual oil lamps had been extinguished for the night. There was no special
magic shielding the area, but her windsight was frustrated by the sheer numbers
of servants, courtiers, guards, and half-dressed magickers crowded around the
base of the grand staircase.
Beynor
was standing there, a few steps up so he had a good view of whatever was
happening almost at his feet. Warlock-knights with drawn swords flaming
prevented any ordinary folk from ascending and made a bright protective semi-circle
around those at the very bottom of the stairs. She could not read anyone's
lips, but it was evident that the place was a bedlam of noise. After a few
minutes, one of the kneeling figures arose and climbed the steps to stand
beside Beynor. It was Ridcanndal, Grand Master of the Glaumerie Guild, the
king's principal adviser. He made a brief announcement. His face, disfigured by
a bulbous nose and unfortunately prominent front teeth, was grave.
The
people assembled in the hall seemed to crumple in response to his words. Mouths
gaped as they cried out. The huddled Guildsmen behind the war-locks at the foot
of the stairs finally stepped away, and the light of their flaming swords
revealed a collapsed figure dressed in a purple brocade robe trimmed in white
fox. Beside it knelt Akossanor, the diminutive Royal Physician, and Lady
Zimroth, the High Thaumaturge. Both were weeping.
Ullanoth
saw her father, Conjure-King Linndal, lying motionless on his back, his balding
head turned at an impossible angle. He was only five-and-forty, but he looked
twenty years older. His hawk-yellow eyes, once smoldering with lunacy, were
wide open and calm—until the physician closed the lids with a gentle hand.
"Where
were you, Sister? We pounded on your door to give you the sad tidings, but
there was no response. And of course your Fortress spell prevented entry."
Beynor's
face bore no trace of tears, and he spoke to Ullanoth in his usual insolent
tone. After speeding back to Fenguard and entering the keep unseen, she had
located her brother in the throne room, perched nonchalantly on the royal
foot-stool while Guild members worked behind a wall of folding screens some distance
away, preparing Linndal's body. It was a Mossland custom for the deceased ruler
to sit for one final day upon his throne and be viewed by his more important
subjects. Because of unfortunate incidents in the past, the Guild and the
nobility needed to be certain that the late monarch was well and truly dead
before consigning his body to its funeral pyre.
Ullanoth
had come in through a secret corridor, via the royal wardrobe, rather than
reveal to Beynor her ability to interpenetrate the walls and become invisible.
The throne room was stone cold and thick with shadows, except for the lights
used by the ministering wizards and a single silver-gilt oil lamp that hung
above the throne itself. Four armed warlock-knights stood before the main
entrance, at the far end of the chamber. Their swords were mercifully sheathed,
so there was no stink of burning brimstone. The unguents and spices being used
to embalm the body filled the air with pungent perfume.
"I
was inside my sanctum," Ullanoth replied evenly, "distracted by a
complex magical procedure. I would have heard nothing if the heavens had
fallen. Then I finished my work and saw fire-kettles being lighted on the keep
battlements, and came out to see what had happened. They say our father fell
down the staircase and perished of a broken neck"
Beynor's
pale hair seemed almost opalescent in the gloom, and his eyes were narrowed, as
if in secret amusement, so that their blackness was minimized. He wore a fine
houserobe of quilted spruce-green velvet, embroidered with golden stars and
edged about the sleeves and neck with sable. The heavy royal sword in its
jeweled scabbard was girded incongruously about his narrow loins.
Ah,
thought Ullanoth. So the little toad thinks he's won at last! But without a
royal proclamation to the contrary, the firstborn will inherit the throne.
He said,
"Father and I were talking in the gallery at the head of the stairs when
suddenly he seemed stricken within his body. He cried out and clutched at his
breast, then staggered away from me. Before I could go to his aid, he tumbled
the full length of the steps."
"How
awful!"
"When
I reached him, it was evident that the king's life had fled. His neck was
plainly broken—but Doctor Akossanor believes that he may have suffered a mortal
heart seizure. He might have died before he ever reached the floor of the great
hall."
"What
a terrible tragedy," Ullanoth said, casting her eyes down. "Who would
have thought Father's heart was weak? Except for his poor wandering mind, he
seemed in good health . . . May the Moon Mother lead him to the abode of eternal
peace." She paused for a significant moment before looking straight at her
brother. "How strange that Father should have accompanied you to the
gallery overlooking the great hall, rather than remaining in his chambers,
where you had been conferring. It was so very late."
Beynor
shrugged.
"Was
anyone else present at the time of the king's fall?"
"The
hall was full of sleepers, of course, who woke as I sounded the alarm. The
physician, Ridcanndal, and Lady Zimroth came almost immediately to render what
assistance they could. It was futile."
"But
no one was with you while you and Father conversed at the top of the
staircase?"
"Unfortunately
not. If others had been there, then perhaps the king would not have fallen
down. As it was ... " He gave a deep sigh. "And Father was so happy
moments before."
"Why
so?" she asked suspiciously.
"We'd
spent long hours talking. The king's mental state was excellent. I told him
about my satisfactory journey to the Continent, of course, and the bargain I'd
struck with Honigalus and Somarus of Didion. Sensible men—even if it took them
too long a time to take me seriously." He gave her a winning smile.
"One of the disadvantages of youth."
"What
is this great bargain?"
"I
have promised to abolish the Wolf's Breath, and to render them powerful
magical assistance should Cathra attempt to annex their country by force. In
turn, they'll pay Moss a generous annual tribute when their fortunes are
mended."
She
kept her face stony. "How in the world did you convince the Didionite
princes you could shut down the volcanos? Not even the Destroyer sigil could
accomplish that—presuming you dared to activate it."
"The
Diddlies are barbarians!" he said, with a scornful laugh. "Ignorant
louts. What do they know of sigils? My demonstrations of high sorcery impressed
them no end—especially Weathermaker's fair winds that sped our ship all the way
to Stippen and back, contrary to the season, and Moss's ash-free skies. If I
could deflect the Wolf's Breath from our country and blow a three-tier barque
along at twelve knots, why should they doubt I could stop the ashfall
altogether?"
"When
it doesn't happen—" she began to say.
But he
broke in with a triumphant grin. "Father told me before I left for the
Continent that the volcanos are calming down. By spring, the Wolf will be dead.
Father has been been bespeaking our dear auntie, Thalassa Dru, in her
"That's
impossible!" Ullanoth cried. "He'd never consult her!"
"Lower
your voice," Beynor hissed, nodding toward the screens that hid the
mortuary workers.
"Father
would never take counsel with his sister—nor would she bespeak him," she
whispered. "Not after he banished her so cruelly and blackened her
name."
Beynor
spoke matter-of-factly. "I think Father and Thalassa mended their quarrel.
What's more, he confided to me some weeks ago that he was thinking of sending
you to her when the unrest in Didion simmers down and the
"Damn
you, Beynor! Damn you! What have you done?" She rushed at him in a rage
and would have torn the document from his hand, but a shimmering veil of air
sprang into being between them, and when she met it, she recoiled with a scream
of pain. "Aaah! You demon dog-scat!"
The
shield winked out and his pale face was suddenly a mask of odious exultation.
He pulled a shining sigil from the collar of his robe. It was the one named
Subtle Armor. "Watch how you speak to me, Sister. I'm the new Conjure-King
of Moss."
"No..."
He
loosed the red ribbon that held the vellum. "Here's the decree, witnessed
earlier this evening by Master Ridcanndal and Lady Zimroth." The document
dangled before her eyes, a thing finely illuminated with red and blue and gold
leaf, stamped with Linndal's bloody thumbprint and those of the witnesses.
"You, the eldest child of his body, are explicitly debarred from the
succession, and I am created heir to the throne. Should I die without issue,
the crown will pass to our young cousin Habenor or his siblings, with
Ridcanndal and Zimroth acting as co-regents until their majority."
"I
see," she said in a flat voice.
"There
are two duplicates of the decree, held for safekeeping by the Guild. You may
keep this copy if you wish. It's quite legal." He beamed at her. "My
death would gain you nothing, so forget about poison in the soup or cruder
forms of assassination. You've lost, Ulla."
"Poor
Father!" She looked away without touching the document. "He loved
neither of us. I think all the love that was in him turned to dust when our
mother was slain so hideously by the Lights."
When
she made no move to accept the parchment, he rolled it up and retied the
ribbon. "It will do you no good to accuse me publicly of causing Father's
death. The Glaumerie Guild is relieved that he's gone, and so are most of the
rest of the court. They're bound to approve my lucrative new alliance with
Didion, and I have long-range plans for Cathra, too! Your- sweetheart Conrig
won't catch the Didionite garrisons at Castlemont and Boarsden by surprise.
Advise your prince to hang up his spurs and forget about launching that
invasion through
"Better
perhaps that I tell him to prepare to defend Cala city against a surprise
attack from the mainland—instigated by you!"
"Say
whatever you please," Beynor said indifferently. "You are to be
confined to the dungeon until I make arrangements to ship you off to Thalassa
Dru in
The
armed warlocks standing at the door came toward her with condescending smiles.
They did not even bother to draw their magical weapons.
"So
you think you can exile me," she said to Beynor. "Have you forgotten
that I am also able to command sigils?"
"To
do what?" he scoffed. "Defend your rooms against intruders while you
mess about in deep matters weakminded women can never understand? You're not
safe in your sanctum now, Ulla—you're here, in my power."
Beynor
gestured, and suddenly he stood four ells tall with his head grazing the
vaulted ceiling and huge arms resting akimbo. He had activated Shapechanger in
a childish attempt to intimidate her. She was unafraid, but the warlocks who
took hold of her were strong men she could not shake off. One of them had a
thick silken cord, which he used to bind her gloved wrists behind her. Another
knelt, chuckling insolently, and began to tie her ankles. They intended to
carry her off like a trussed calf.
Beynor's
gigantic apparition howled a peal of scornful laughter. "Not so high and
mighty now, are you, Sister?"
"Imbecile,"
she said. The sigils Interpenetrator and Concealer were still within her
gloves, resting painfully in the palms of her hands. She whispered the spells
commanding them and vanished from the confining arms of the warlocks like a
puff of vapor, leaving the knotted silk cords behind in a heap on the scuffed
rush matting of the throne room floor.
Previous | Table of Contents | Next