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Ten

The long return trip to the capital from Zeth Abbey had been a trying ordeal for Princess Maudrayne. The king had suffered great agitation of mind, clearly the result of the oracle's pronouncement, which he would not dis­cuss. Along with his anxiety, Olmigon's pain intensified and he required more and more of the Tarnian healer's soothing elixir in order to sleep. The two royal women were obliged to care for the king together night and day, since he refused to abide the presence of anyone else—especially the Royal Alchymist. He could no longer control his natural functions and had to be swaddled like an infant; and his appetite, which was already delicate as a result of his malady and the stress of traveling, dwindled to the point where he could take only milksops or broth laced with wine.

By the time the returning cavalcade reached the town of Great Market, some forty leagues from the capital, Olmigon had so weakened that Cataldise and Maudrayne began to fear for his survival. They pleaded with him to break the journey. Why not stop for several days in the mayor's fine mansion, where they were being accommodated? The king could rest and regain his strength.

But he would not. "I have vitally important business to discuss with my son Conrig," he declared. "We'll leave here at dawn, as usual—and tomorrow night I'll sleep again in my own bed."

It was around half-past ten when the royal coach finally entered Cala and rumbled up cobblestoned Blenholme Way to the palace on the hill. The streets of the great city were already cleared of common people by the watch, and a red crescent moon hung low in the western sky above the river ramparts. Advance riders had heralded the party's arrival, and the palace forecourt blazed with

torches. A cheering throng of, courtiers greeted the ailing king, who was eased from the carriage and installed in a litter that would bear him to his chambers. Servants dashed about in response to the queen's commands and those of Vra-Kilian. The other members of the entourage, famished and exhausted, began to melt away.

Princess Maudrayne was glad that little attention was paid to her, and that her husband was not among those greeting the return of the king. She was able to slip away with Rusgann Moorcock, the sturdy, plainspoken tirewoman who had become her personal maid during the pilgrimage, after Queen Cataldise preempted the services of both ladies-in-waiting.

Unaccountably, the haughty princess and lowborn Rusgann had become friends. Maudrayne's sharpness didn't bother the other woman a bit. When the princess was egregiously rude, Rusgann didn't hesitate to reply in kind, just as independent-minded Tarnian servants were apt to do when provoked. They had many a zestful quarrel, exchanged complaints about the hardships of the trip, and even found things to laugh about.

And in time, Maudrayne had shared her secret .. .

Well ahead of the crowd attending the king and queen, the two women made their way through the palace to the princely apartments. Only the Lord Cham­berlain's wife Lady Truary, a dame given to irksome inquisitiveness, made bold to waylay them in the corridor beyond the Hall of Presence, in hopes of learning news of the oracle's reply to the Question.

"Princess, I'm so glad I found you!" Truary cried, dropping a perfunctory curtsey. "Do come with me to the Blue Room, where other Privy Council wives and I have ordered a delicious collation and mulled wine. The whole palace is wild to know what Emperor Bazekoy said! Was there a good omen? You must tell us!"

Doughty Rusgann stepped in front of her mistress. "Now then, my lady. You must contain your curiosity. We've been On the road since sunup, hurrying along because the King's Grace was determined to arrive here tonight. Princess Maudrayne is exhausted and has no time for you now."

The noblewoman pouted. She was dressed in sky-blue satin, ermine-trimmed, and dripped with jewels. "But we've waited for hours and hours! Surely Your Grace can spare us the courtesy of a brief chat. We don't care a bit about your travelworn appearance."

Maudrayne's garments were caked with dust, and her auburn curls had become a sadly bedraggled mop. It was unforgivably tactless for Truary to have made mention of it, but the princess smiled serenely. "I hope I am always courte­ous, lady. It's my duty to every subject of my royal father-in-law, no matter how low ... or highborn."

Truary blinked, not certain whether or not she had been insulted.

Neither the Lord Chamberlain's wife nor any of the other peeresses in her set were warm friends of Maudrayne. When she came to Gala to marry Conrig six years earlier, the court ladies had fluttered about her like frivolous butterflies eager to test the nectar of an exotic new flower sprung up in their midst. Soon enough they discovered that the imposing Tarnian bride was indifferent to fash­ion, flirting, gossip, and party-going--traditional pastimes of the noblewomen of Cala palace.

Instead, the seventeen-year-old Maudrayne read books on philosophy and astronomy. She collected rare seashells on solitary walks along the strand. She had dried and pressed wild plants sent to her from all over Cathra and spent long hours mounting them on parchment sheets, inscribing their names, habit of growth, and any utility they might have to mankind. She played lawn-bowls with the male courtiers and often won. She was an expert shot with a shortbow and hunted gamebirds in season, then prepared strangely spiced sauces for their cooking with her own hands. She brought from her barbaric homeland a sloop-rigged yacht, which she captained without shame, dressed as a common sailor. She could even swim!

As months and years went by without her conceiving an heir to the throne, the princess was both pitied and patronized by the court ladies, who offered charms and nostrums guaranteed to overcome barrenness. Some of them even dared to suggest that a more conventional manner of living would increase her chances of bearing a child. She listened to their comments with ill-concealed scorn and continued doing exactly as she pleased.

Now Maudrayne said to Truary, "Tonight I must disappoint you and the others. King Olmigon has told no living soul what Question he asked of the oracle—much less what answer he received. If you're curious, I'm afraid that you'll have to ask him to share your collation and chat. And now I bid you good night."

She swept off down the hall with Rusgann lumbering after. "That's telling the nervy cow!" the tirewoman said, smothering giggles. "So she waited for

hours, poor thing. And you've only been traveling and tending a sick man for three perishing weeks!"

"Leave be, Rusgann," the princess said with an irritable gesture. "I'm too tired to be angry."

A sly grin. "You'll soon have sweet revenge on her and the others, if all goes as we hope."

"We can't be certain yet. I've only missed two courses. This has happened to me before, with no good outcome."

"But this time there's a glow about you, my lady, even though you're dead tired. And the morning qualmishness—"

"I intend to wait until there's no possible doubt before telling my husband. You will continue to do my laundry and act as my personal maid as well." The tirewoman beamed. "It'll be my pleasure."

"I won't need you tonight, however. You're as weary as I am. My other attendants have lazed away while I was gone. Let them earn their salt. Tell Lady Sovanna, my chief lady-in-waiting, to find a nice place for you to live, close to my chambers. Be sure it's to your liking and don't let her fob you off with some airless closet. Take care of yourself, Rusgann, and sleep well. We'll discuss your new duties in the morning."

They came into the elaborate suite of rooms belonging to the Prince Heritor, his wife, and their intimate servants. Lady Sovanna Ironside, the two vapid young noblewomen who assisted her, and a covey of maidservants hastened to attend the princess, and soon Maudrayne was enjoying a long bath before the fire in her own large sitting room.

Like Truary, Sovanna was eager to know what Bazekoy's oracle had said, and was openly annoyed when the princess said she knew nothing about it and curtly refused to discuss details of the journey. The chief lady-in-waiting was a middle-aged woman of great efficiency, appointed by the queen. She pretended a maternal devotion to Maudrayne but had too often borne the brunt of the princess's fiery temper and offhand thoughtlessness to be loyal—much less a confidante.

It's going to be interesting, Maudrayne thought, to see how Sovanna reacts to the promotion of Rusgann. Well—at least I no longer have to worry about the old bitch inspecting my smallclothes and giving the queen monthly fertility reports!

The princess sipped warmed brandywine and ate a bowl of green egg-and-cheese soup, while her women dried and combed her hair, rubbed her swollen feet with rose-scented oil, and dressed her in a cream-colored nightdress of heavy silk and a matching quilted robe edged with swansdown.

Later, made mellow by the spirits and light meal and happy to be clean and comfortable again, Maudrayne began to reconsider her decision not to tell Conrig of her secret. They hadn't seen each other in over two moons, what with the pil­grimage and his own earlier long sojourn at the hunting lodge; and they had parted in a cool humor—she indignant that this year they would not shoot waterfowl and hunt together at Lake Brent, and he adamant that she would not accompany him to the lodge, but refusing to give good reason why.

From a single private conversation with the king during the return journey, Maudrayne now knew something of what Conrig had been up to in the north country. Unlike Olmigon, she had been well aware that her husband intended to pursue the interrupted press for Sovereignty, whether the king gave his consent or not. And if Conrig was headed off to fight against Didion, he deserved to know that she was expecting a child.

"Sovanna, is my lord husband in his bedchamber?" It was not the Cathran custom for married royals to share sleeping quarters.

"I think not, Your Grace," said the lady-in-waiting, refilling the princess's crystal cup with Golden Alembic brandy once again, while giving a grimace of disapproval. Maudrayne, like all Tarnian women, could drink most Cathran men under the table and be none the worse the morning after. "He was occupied with affairs of state all evening before you arrived. I know he hoped to visit the King's Grace as soon as possible to pay his respects, and he's also called for an extraordi­nary meeting of the Privy Council." She smirked knowingly. "That caused a bit of a stir, I heard. Several of the councilors thought they should wait for the king's approval. But even the reluctant ones finally decided to heed the prince's wish—for fear of missing some juicy bit of news about the oracle."

The other women were gathering up used towels and bathing sundries, while four footmen had come to lift the tub onto a wheeled platform, and were now endeavoring to remove it from the sitting room without spilling water on the fine Incayo carpet.

"Very well; the princess said. "You may all leave me now. Quench the lights save for the hour-marker."

They bowed and did as she bade and trooped out, closing the door. Maudrayne locked it, then went to a writing table where an elaborately carved little casket stood, gleaming in the lone candleflame. It was made of precious sea-unicorn ivory, fashioned by the Tarnian crafters of Havoc Bay in the far north. When one pressed certain prominent parts in the correct manner, its lid sprang open. Inside was Maudrayne's diary.

So many days now to catch up on! But she had not dared to bring the small book along on the pilgrimage. All of her hopes and fears and joys and rages were contained in it, and she intended that no one else should read it until she was dead. She leafed back through the pages, confirming the date of her last womanly course. It was as she'd thought: two moons and more ago. And she had suffered the morning malaise, tender breasts, and swollen feet, and experienced that unaccountable undercurrent of happiness so at odds with the grim tenor of her life of late. Oldwives of Tarn had told her what that meant.

I will let Conrig know, she decided, replacing the diary. I'll wait for him in his chamber and tell him this very night.

She sat quietly for some time in the dimness, savoring the rest of the fine brandy. Then she rose from her armchair and went into her dark bedchamber, and thence to the door connecting her apartment with that of her husband. It was locked, and that was unusual; but years ago she had had the key copied, and so she fetched it now, opened the door, and stepped over the threshold.

His sleeping chamber was much larger than her own, with a splendid canopied bed in the middle. Wainscot-faced walls were painted dark crimson above, with touches of white and gold in the moldings. The candle-sconces were also gold, but none of the tapers in them were lit, so that the painted land­scapes and tapestries on the walls were engulfed in shadows. The only illumina­tion came from the fireplace, where glowing coals crackled before a backlog, from a slightly open door leading to the prince's sitting room, and from the tall win­dows. Their draperies had not yet been drawn, so that the lamps on the palace bat­tlements and towers were visible, as well as those in the great city below Cala Hill. Beyond was the black sea, where tiny sparks marked ships at their moorings out in Blenholme Roads.

It was cold in Conrig's room, and an unfamiliar fragrance lingered in the air. Was it vetiver? How odd! He was as fond of perfumes as most Cathran men, but his usual preference was for bergamot, oakmoss, or clary sage.

Maudrayne might have waited for her husband in his bed; but she recalled happier days when they had lain together by the fire in his wide, padded longchair that stood on a hearth-rug of pieced otterskin. Two throws of black mink lay folded neatly on the floor beside the chair to warm the prince when he sat up late, reading or thinking. She shook out both of them to make herself a nest of soft furs.

I'll surprise him, she thought, as she snuggled deeply into the chair. Smil­ing, she fell asleep watching the embers.

 

At first Maudrayne thought she was dreaming. There were voices coming from the next room—his, and that of a woman. Conrig spoke angrily and the woman laughed at him, a throaty sound that evoked both derision and sexual enticement.

"Why should I windspeak your boring brother Stergos when it's so much more pleasant to come to you in a Sending and deliver my intelligence reports in person?"

"You should know why—if you had bothered to scry the palace before projecting your Sending. My wife is here and so is the king. Would you destroy me, Ullanoth? I told you not to come here any more!"

"And I told you that I go where I please. But lay your fears to rest, my prince. I've secured us against the weak-talented windpeepers dwelling in your palace. Earlier, I watched your touching reunion with your father. I presume that he approved your plan to invade Didion."

"He did. He even acceded to your own role as ally. But you must leave me at once! What if my wife should find us together?"

Maudrayne stifled feelings of amazement and dismay. How could the Conjure-Princess of Moss be here in Cala Palace, speaking to her husband in his private apartment? And what was she saying about an alliance in the invasion of Didion? She strained her ears to learn more.

Ullanoth was laughing again. "Before I came, I scried your beloved Maudrayne taking a bath and drinking a scandalous amount of brandy. Her chamber is dark. She's no doubt dead drunk in her bed, with no thought at all of her wifely duty. What a shame! You'll have to sleep alone . . . unless you mend your manners and beg my pardon for being rude."

"Lady, you go too far—aaah!" He broke off with a cry of pained surprise. "No," came the scornful retort. "You go too far, daring to lay rude hands on a Conjure-Princess of Moss. So there! You've been punished. Now entreat my forgiveness, and I'll say I'm sorry for hurting you with my magic, and we'll make it up between us with a kiss."

Great God of the Arctic Storms! Maudrayne prayed. Grant that this is some nightmare and let me wake! She dares to speak to him like a mistress? And he makes willing answer

Maudrayne could not doubt the evidence of her own ears. She overheard amorous sighs and murmurings, and the kind of endearments exchanged only by lovers of long standing. Red rage and wounded pride swelled her Tarnian heart, and she would have sprung up and rushed into the next room to confront the guilty pair. But the next words spoken by the sorceress so intrigued her that curiosity overcame anger. She settled back to listen.

"Restrain your ardor, my prince, until I've shared my latest news with you. There is a very serious problem. I have learned that the man killed at Castle Vanguard by your young footman was a high-ranking Mossland sorcerer named Iscannon. He was one of the Glaumerie Guild members who accompanied my brother on the voyage to the Continent. Beyond a doubt he was deeply involved in Beynor's plot to thwart your conquest of Didion."

"But how did he find out about the secret meeting?" Conrig asked. "His join­ing of Hartrig Skellhaven's train traveling to Castle Vanguard had to be planned well in advance. Surely Beynor could not have windwatched our conferences at Brent Lodge."

"He could have, but he didn't. I took careful precautions against it. That's the problem I spoke of. I believe that you have a traitor among your own peo­ple. Beynor had no reason to suspect you were calling a council of war. Furthermore, he and his followers would hardly mount a long-distance surveil-lance of Cathra on the off-chance of discovering some useful secret. The magic is hellishly difficult, even for Mossland sorcerers. No—my wicked little brother was told of the meeting at Castle Vanguard by some disloyal Cathran."

"A traitor . . . The man who comes immediately to mind is Skellhaven, and yet all my instincts tell me he is loyal."

"In my judgment, your instincts are correct. The pirate lord hates Didion and despises Moss, as does his cousin Holmrangel. And even if one of them was careless and let slip that they were meeting you, they had no advance knowledge of a council of war. So your turncoat must be another."

"He can't be one of the three Heart Companions who accompanied me from Brent Lodge," the prince said. "They didn't know the purpose of the meet­ing, either. Only two persons were aware in advance of my intention to attack Didion—Duke Tanaby Vanguard, who organized the council of war at my behest, and the Lord Chancellor, Odon Falmire. I can't believe either one would consort with Beynor. What possible motive could they have for doing so? You must investigate further, lady."

"I'll try," Ullanoth said, "but there is little more I can do until I have a long talk with Beynor. He returned to Royal Fenguard a couple of hours ago, quite unex­pectedly, in a splendid, brand-new ship hidden beneath a spell of couverture. He went off immediately to speak to our father. I did scry the two princes of Didion at home in Holt Mallburn. They were celebrating their new alliance with Stippen and Foraile. I saw the treaty when they showed it to King Achardus."

"Curse them; Conrig growled.

Ullanoth uttered a soft, wry laugh. "I'll do my best, you may be sure . . . But while I delve into the affairs of my little brother and his cohorts, you must consider who among your own close associates might have a strong reason to betray you."

A long silence.

Conrig said, "There is only one." Another silence. "And he may have been able to find out about the meeting at Castle Vanguard by eavesdropping on my conversations with my brother, or by some other means."

"Who is this person?"

"We'll talk of it later."

"We don't have much time. Less than two weeks remain before your army sets out. And there's something-else you should keep in mind. The sorcerer Iscannon was not only a spy. He was also one of Glaumerie's premier assassins."

"God's Blood! Would he have dared to come at me in Castle Vanguard?"

"Beyond a doubt. And now that he's dead, Beynor may send another. You must beware, my prince. Seek magical assistance from your brother Vra-Stergos. There is a certain charm I know that would render you sure protection. Unfortu­nately, I cannot give it to you via a Sending, nor do I dare share its magic with a Brother of Zeth." She paused, then asked casually, "What did your servant Deveron Austrey do with Iscannon's moonstone amulet? I know that Skellhaven has the golden chain. But the boy took the sigil, didn't he?"

"Why . . . yes. He wanted to hand it over to my brother. But I feared the thing was charged with dangerous magic, so I made him throw it down a necessarium at Castle Vanguard:'

"Ah. That was well done. The moonstone might have done great harm in inexperienced hands, and for love of you I would not see your dear brother Stergos imperiled."

"So you love me! You've never said so?'

"I say it now. And I prove it thus ..

The minutes that followed were broken only by wordless cries. Then the passion of the two in the sitting room grew more intense, until it was evident that neither paid any heed to their surroundings.

 

With tears of humiliation and fury streaming from her eyes, Princess Maudrayne crept out from beneath the furs, refolded them with shaking hands, and slipped away, locking the door to the prince's bedchamber behind her. When she was safe in her own apartment, she dried her eyes and put on an ermine-lined cloak against the night chill, then lit a candle and went to the elegant small room where her chief lady-in-waiting slept.

"Sovanna! Wake up. I have need of you."

The noblewoman groaned pitiably and emerged from her bedclothes with maddening slowness. "Madam, are you ill?"

"I'm unable to sleep. Every bone in my body aches. You must fetch the shaman Red Ansel Pikan and have him bring me a remedy. I presume he still resides in his usual palace room?"

Sovanna Ironside lurched to her feet and fumbled for her house shoes. Her voice was barely civil. "Well, he should be there. One never knows for sure. Since you left on the king's pilgrimage, the Tarnian leech has prowled the city as he pleases, night and day, doing God knows what. But he usually comes back to the palace for a good meal and strong drink and a warm bed . . . Ah, where's my plaguey cloak? It's freezing in here."

"Fetch Ansel yourself, Sovanna. Don't send a footman. And hurry." A martyred sigh. "Yes, Your Grace."

When the woman was gone, Maudrayne returned to her sitting room, heaped fuel on the nearly extinct fire, and efficiently poked it back to life. Pouring herself another stiff tot of brandy, she sat brooding by the hearth for over half an hour, until there came a scratching at the hall door.

She opened it to a smiling, rotund man of medium stature. He was clad in a brown leather tunic with matching gartered trews, over which he wore a greatcoat of lustrous sealskin, ornamented at the sleeves and hem with wide bands of gold thread embroidery and ivory beadwork. A massive pectoral of gold paved with Tarnian opals hung on his breast, and he carried a sea-ivory baton ornamented with inlays of precious metal. His hair and bushy beard had the lively tint of tundra fire-lilies, and his eyes were dark, deep set, and kind.

"Can't sleep, Maudie?" he inquired genially. "I've got just the thing." He touched an ornate baldric having numerous pouches closed with ivory toggles.

The sharp-faced lady-in-waiting hovered behind him, carrying a lantern. Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"

"Thank you, Sovanna," the princess said. "You may retire?' She took Red
Ansel's arm and drew him inside, locking the door. "I'm sorry to have roused you."
"Oh, I wasn't asleep. There's much ado in the palace tonight. Prince Heritor
Conrig summoned me less than half an hour ago, following a wee-hours meeting
of the Privy Council. It seems your husband fears an attack on Cala from the
Continent. I've been ordered to enlist Tarnian mercenary ships to help defend the city."

She lifted her brows. "And will they come?"

"I'll windspeak the sealords in Goodfortune Bay early tomorrow and we'll see. The prince wanted me to do it at once, but I told him our countrymen would charge him double if they were forced to talk business in the middle of the night."

"Come and sit with me by the fire. Would you like some brandy?"

Ansel chuckled. "Does a Tarnian ever refuse good liquor?" He studied her face as she poured, and his cheerful mien became one of deep concern. "You didn't really summon me for a sleeping potion, did you, lass?"

"No, old friend." She sighed. They took their ease and he waited patiently for her to speak while they both sipped from crystal cups. Her question, when it finally came, made him goggle in astonishment.

"Ansel, what is a Sending?"

"Well, well! So you've got yourself mixed up in sorcery, have you?" "Not I," she said calmly, "but my lord husband."

A brief look of pity shone in the shaman's eyes. "A Sending is a magical body replica, a double of a highly talented person, sent over a distance to have converse with another who possesses talent. The simulacrum is virtually identical to the Sender's natural form—warm and solid, not a ghost. While a wizard inhabits his Sending, his true body remains alive but totally senseless?'

Maudrayne was taken aback. "The—the person receiving the Sending must also possess talent?"

"Oh, yes. The receiver helps to solidify the Sending, which may then prowl about anywhere it chooses. But it can only arrive in the near vicinity of an adept."

Her glance fell. When she spoke her voice was desolate. "A Sending came to my husband this night and may still be with him in his chambers. I overheard them but didn't see them together. It was not a wizard who came but a witch: Ullanoth, Conjure-Princess of Moss."

"By the Three Icebound Sisters! Then Prince Conrig is secretly adept! I never got close to him when he returned to the palace, so I had no idea. His talent must be exiguous indeed if no Brother of Zeth has detected it."

"This is a calamity, Ansel. If Conrig's talent were known, he would be barred from the Cathran succession?'

"But surely you would not betray your husband's secret, my child. Nor would I."

"I'm not certain what I will do," she said in an ominous tone. "Answer another question for me. Can a Sending become pregnant?"

"Great God of the Boreal Blizzards," Ansel breathed. "The Mossland witch has had sexual congress with your husband?"

Her voice had a preternatural composure. "Yes. This very night—and probably not for the first time. I've told you that Conrig has been cold toward me because he fears I'm barren. Now I think he may intend to put me aside—perhaps taking this Ullanoth to wife." She gave a small, bitter laugh. "But here's a fine jest: I'm virtually certain that I'm two months with child. It was to tell Conrig the wonderful news that I went into his chambers tonight and waited for him. I fell asleep, and when I woke he was in the next room with Ullanoth's Sending. And they—they—" She squeezed her eyes shut. "God help me, Ansel. I heard them! And if she can also give him a child—"

The shaman bent forward, taking the hands of the princess. "Maudie, a Sending cannot conceive. Neither can it digest food, or perform any other natural bodily function—or even remain longer than a few hours in the place where it was Sent, for then the genuine body would sicken and die as its energies were drained?'

Maudrayne cried, "Say you true?" Tears brimmed in her eyes, and for a moment she was exalted.

"I do, dear girl. I know all about such things, for they are part of the magical heritage of the Far North."

The sudden joy drained from her face, to be replaced with a look of calculation. 'Then perhaps there is time to win him back, if my pregnancy goes well. Conrig covets an heir as much as he does the Sovereignty of Blenholme. But I think I shall not tell him yet. No, not until our love is rekindled and I am certain that I have first place in his heart . . . One other thing I must know: What is a sigil?"

The shaman's benign face hardened. "It's a piece of strangely carved moon-stone made by the Salka monsters in ages long past, so fraught with peril that no sensible magicker would have anything to do with it—a charm conjured with the dread power of the Coldlight Army. Don't tell me Prince Conrig is meddling with such a thing!"

"I'm not sure. What does a sigil do?"

"They have various purposes, depending upon the spell infused within them. But all have the potential to destroy the soul of the user and do great harm to those around them. You must tell me how you came to know of such a thing. Did the prince and Ullanoth speak of it?"

She told him what she had overheard about Iscannon the wizard-assassin, slain by Conrig's young footman Deveron, and how the Conjure-Princess had inquired offhandedly about what had been done with a sigil taken from his dead body.

"Iscannon," the shaman murmured. "I know of him. A member of Moss's Glaumerie Guild, which has custody of Rothbannon's renowned Seven Stones. So he was killed by a common servant boy! I wonder how that happened?"

"My husband claimed that this sigil was thrown down a latrine in Castle Vanguard by the footman. Ullanoth was happy for its disposal, saying as you do that it was very dangerous. But—I think Conrig may have lied."

"Hmmm! Why don't I search his chambers? One can't scry a sigil, but no locked door can stop me. If Prince Conrig has the magical moonstone, perhaps I can find a way to take it away from him and put it in a safe place."

Maudrayne brightened. "Could you do that? I confess that I don't know whether I still love the damned man or hate him at this moment, but I certainly would not have him endangered by evil magic?'

"You can trust me, lass. Of course, Conrig may not have the sigil after all. Who is this young footman called Deveron?"

"A furtive lad, always skulking about and turning up in unexpected places. I think Conrig uses him as a sort of domestic spy. He's certainly more than an ordinary servant?'

"Does he possess talent?"

"Certainly not."

"Puzzling," mused the shaman. "And to think that such a one killed Iscannon! I think I'll take a discreet look at this interesting young man and find out whether he secretly kept Iscannon's stone—perhaps as a souvenir. If he did, something will have to be done. Don't worry, Maudie. I'll deal with it." He rose to his feet. "You need sleep after your tiring journey." He opened one of the pockets on his baldric and removed a green phial, oddly shaped. "Put three drops of this in water and drink it down. You will fall asleep at once and rest dreamlessly?'

She took the tiny bottle. "Thank you, Ansel. Come again to me tomorrow. I'll tell you about the trip to Zeth Abbey, and you can tell me how you've fared for the past three weeks. How is the ambassador's ailing small daughter?"

"Fully recovered and homesick for Tarn."

The princess sighed. "So am I, old friend. Sick and so very, very tired!" She kissed him on the cheek, let him out, and secured the door to the corridor.

At the entrance to her bedchamber she paused. By now, the ceramic bottles of hot water the servants had carefully arranged to warm her sheets would be stone cold. Why not sleep in front of the sitting-room fire? She went for a pillow and a down comforter and settled into an upholstered armchair with a footstool. When she was comfortable, she realized she had forgotten water for the sleeping potion. She studied the gleaming green-glass phial in the firelight. It contained over a dram, enough to bring many nights of sleep.

I don't believe I need this after all, she thought drowsily, tucking it into a pocket of her robe. But it may come in handy later.

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