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thirty
In mid-morning of that Leap
Day of the Boreal Moon, when the tumult of battle had subsided, Cathra's
wounded received succor and her dead were wrapped in shrouds and laid out on
individual funeral pyres in the palace's outer ward: nine knights from various
households, the two nobly born armigers slain at
The low-riding sun shone
brilliantly and the air was very cold. Snudge stood among the other squires of
the royal cohort assembled to pay tribute to the fallen. When the alchymists
had completed their prayers and the flames were leaping high, the boys and the
Heart Companions gave a final flourish of swords in tribute and prepared to
accompany Conrig back into the palace, where he would hold audience and deal with
necessary business devolving upon the conquest.
"Deveron, you are
excused from attending." The prince spoke privily to the boy as they
ascended the great staircase leading to the presence chambers of Didion.
"Rest and recover in the apartment set aside for me and Vra-Stergos in the
west wing. My trussing coffer is there. Take fresh clothes for yourself. Later,
if you have the strength, undertake a windsearch for Princess Ullanoth, whose
whereabouts are still unknown, and then attempt an overview of events taking
place at sea off Cathra's southern coast. My brother has been unable to obtain
any detailed information from the windvoices at Cala, nor do we know how the
Tarnian mercenary fleet may be faring."
"I'll
find out what I can, Your Grace."
"Await
my coming. Tell no one else what you discover." He pulled a distinctive
sapphire ring from a finger of his right hand. "Show this to Lord
Bogshaw's men, who secure the door to my rooms, and they will admit you."
"Yes,
Your Grace."
The palace was now surprisingly
quiet, with tired-looking sentries standing guard in critical areas. A few
servants with haunted faces crept about the corridors on domestic errands,
shepherded by armed Cathran thanes. Only sanded-over stains on the floor and
occasional piles of broken furniture and other debris pushed into corners gave
evidence of the fighting that had taken place during the night. Didionite
prisoners of war had removed their own dead. On Conrig's orders, the wounded
defenders were being given the same care as his own men.
At the opulent guest
chambers the prince had appropriated, Bogshaw's men recognized Snudge at once
as the hero of
Exhausted though he was and
aching in every muscle, he knew that the last thing his royal master really
expected was for him to take his ease. He pulled a truckle-bed out from beneath
the prince's own canopied bed, sprawled on it fully dressed, and undertook a
windsearch for the Conjure-Princess. In spite of her promise to meet Conrig, no
one had yet laid eyes on her, nor had she bespoken either alchymist since
giving notice that the gates to Holt Mallburn were open to the Cathran army.
Snudge's
first cursory search revealed no trace of Ullanoth, which did not surprise him.
Nevertheless, he felt certain that she was still in the palace and began a more
methodical inspection of the huge fortress, beginning with the central keep,
scrying every room, closet, and cubbyhole. He forced himself to persevere in
the tedious work until his fatigued brain would have no more of it. The reality
of his task changed into a dreary dream of it, and dreaming passed in turn into
welcome oblivion.
It was
only a matter of convenience that Conrig Wincantor sat upon the throne of
Didion during his first official audience following the conquest. Honigalus,
the new king, had thus far refused to respond to Cathran windspeech, and there
could be no capitulation of Didion to the Sovereignty unless its legitimate
ruler formally submitted.
Conrig's invasion of the
enemy capital had succeeded, but the war was not won—and the fact that King
Achardus had chosen death over the Sovereignty of High Blenholme had been a
severe blow to the Prince Heritor's overall strategy. His small army could not
possibly hold Didion over the winter; there was not enough food. Unless
Honigalus was quickly defeated at sea or persuaded to accept vassalage, the
Cathrans would have to withdraw ignominiously, with their tails tucked between
their legs.
None of his lords had voiced
this unpleasant contingency to Conrig, but all of them knew it to be true. The
prince had yet to decide what he would do next; nevertheless he showed a
confident face to all of those assembled in the throne room, and commanded Earl
Marshal Parlian Beorbrook to make the first report.
The marshal informed Conrig
that the toll of mortality among the combat-ant warriors of Didion was
unexpectedly modest. Those slaughtered by the spunkies might have numbered in
the thousands, but no one could now say for certain. By dawn, when all traces
of the uncanny fog had melted away, the terrible tittle creatures had
disappeared—and so had the remains of those they had feasted upon. Nothing was
left of the victims but the empty garments and armor they had worn, lying in
drifts of dust.
"We will speak no more
of those slain by the Small Lights," Conrig told Beorbrook quietly.
"Few of our people witnessed the blood-drained bodies last night, and in
time they may come to believe that the awful sight was only imagined, not
real."
"Or that the wasted
corpses were merely those who had starved to death in the famine,"
Beorbrook suggested. "I'll deal with any who persist in saying
otherwise."
"I
place the military occupation of Mallburn in your able hands," the prince
told him. "Ramscrest will serve as your principal deputy, arranging for
the defense of the city against any Didionite forays from the countryside.
Somarus and his force at Boarsden probably pose the only serious threat against
us. Persuade members of the late king's Privy Council to tell you how many
warriors he has under his command. Their lives depend upon their cooperation.
When your plan of occupation and defense is complete, come and inform me of the
details."
"Very well. But before
I go, Your Grace, I think you should interview the Didionite archwizard. My men
have him here in custody, and he's given his parole not to attempt any magical
mischief. He says he has a message from Honigalus."
"Bring him forward," the prince said.
Ilingus Direwold stood
defiant before the conqueror, his hound-dog features radiating something very
close to triumph. "I have recently bespoken King Honigalus. Even as we
speak, his armada is engaging your own navy in a fierce sea-battle east of
Cathra's Vigilant Isles. Your ships are strongly outnumbered and are in the
process of being defeated."
Those
standing close to the throne uttered gasps and cries of consternation. "Go
on," Conrig said flatly.
"After his victory is
accomplished, King Honigalus will be reinforced by over two dozen heavily armed
frigates and corvettes commanded by Continental corsairs. They'll make short
work of the rest of your navy and then commence bombarding
Conrig inclined his head in
a gracious gesture. "Thank your king for his suggestion. Please tell him
to go to hell." And to Beorbrook: "Lock this man in the dungeon with
his fellow magickers. My brother tells me that these Didionite adepts have fairly
weak talents and are unable to bespeak or windwatch through a dense burden of
rock and earth. If Honigalus has any more messages for me, let him send them
through the Brothers of Zeth."
"You condemn your family to death!" Ilingus cried.
"Take him away," Conrig said wearily. "I'll hear Duke
Tanaby's report next."
Vanguard,
his three fighting sons, and their considerable force of warriors had rounded
up the officers of the great guilds and the city's merchant-lords almost
without bloodshed and marched them to the palace in chains. Conrig now
interviewed each Didionite magnate briefly, assuring them that they would
eventually be allowed to continue in business under the Sovereignty if they
cooperated with Vanguard's inventory of their treasure, food supplies, and
weaponry. He then beckoned Viscount Hartrig Skellhaven to approach the throne,
the last of the principal Cathran battle-leaders to render his report. But
before the seagoing noble and his associates could make their way across the
crowded room, there was a commotion at the door and the sound of female voices
raised in sharp protest.
Conrig
rose to his feet and commanded silence.
"It's the three
Didionite royal ladies," Count Sividian called out, "demanding
audience with Your Grace."
"Let
them enter." The prince resumed his seat.
Uncrowned Queen Bryce and
Somarus's wife Thylla were like dead women walking, their faces ravaged by
shock and grief and their hair hanging in snarls. They still wore rumpled
nightrobes and shuffled forward as if they were dazed sheep, driven by young
Princess Risalla. She was dressed in a black gown, simply cut but of rich
fabric. Her pale hair was arranged in neat coils and covered by a black veil.
"Prince Conrig!"
Risalla cried out boldly, stepping ahead of the other two. "We've come to
beg a boon of you. Give us the bodies of King Achardus and Queen Siry, so that
we may prepare them for burial in the ancestral crypt."
After their brief encounter
the previous night, Conrig had dismissed the youngest child of Achardus as a
meek, colorless creature of no great beauty. But the woman who confronted him
now had no aspect of fear or diffidence about her. Risalla's eyes were alight
with courage and determination, giving her plain features an aura of strength
and magnificence beyond mere comeliness.
He said quietly, "The
brave queen's remains you may certainly have, Princess. But why should I grant
honorable repose to an uncivilized brute like Achardus, who flouted every norm
of chivalry by murdering Cathra's peaceable delegation?"
"I know it was ignoble
of my father to have killed your people, cast their bodies into the sea, and
piked their heads above
Conrig sighed. "And would
you accept the Sovereignty of High Blenholme, madam, if fate decrees that
my victory over your nation shall stand?"
"With
all my heart," said Risalla. "It would be my duty, which I value
above any other consideration."
Conrig
lifted his gaze to Sividian, who stood behind the royal women. "Give them
the bodies and see that they have what is needed."
The
count nodded and ushered the three of them away.
Viscount Skellhaven finally
approached and reported that he had made short work of the handful of naval
vessels deemed too unsound to join the armada and the few merchantmen tied up
at the docks, arresting their officers and sending their crews fleeing into the
ruins of the city.
"But the harbor spoils
were as paltry as we feared, Your Grace. Most of the warehouses are empty. Of
the captured ships, only a single Stippenese transport carrack was well found
and decently armed with a dozen culverins. She's a strong, speedy clipper about
a hundred fifteen foot long, displacing five hundred tons. Her name is Shearwater
. . . and I want her!"
The
prince laughed. "Draw closer, Hartrig. The ship is yours—but not yet to
keep, until you and your brave seamen have done a necessary service for
me." Skellhaven climbed the dais. He spoke low. "What is it?"
"I must finish the job
I began, taking on King Honigalus, or else our victory here in Holt Mallburn is
an empty sham. Can you provision and crew this Shear-water before
nightfall? I intend to leave for Cathra as soon as possible."
The viscount nodded slowly.
"Aye. Between us, Cousin Holmrangel and I've enough hands for a fighting
crew. We'll press a few willing Stippenese officers as well from the
gang of prisoners. It'll save time, shaking the ship down, although she's not
that different from Cathran carracks . . . But it's five hundred fifty hard
leagues to Blenholme Roads. Even with the fairest winds and no storms, the
voyage could take nearly four days this chancey time of year."
"What if our sails are
stiffened by a magical gale created by Conjure-Princess Ullanoth?" the
prince inquired softly.
"Depends on the
condition of Shearwater's bottom," Skellhaven said. "But if
she's clean below, and doesn't dismast or fall apart under the strain, and if
we avoid digging her bow and flipping fore-and-aft—we might just be able to
make it in thirty-six hours."
"That's
more like it!" Conrig's grin was reckless. "Are you game to try, my
lord? The fate of the Sovereignty—and Cathra itself—may depend on your answer,
for our new Lord Admiral Copperstrand has played the fool and split his force
in two, counter to King Olmigon's express command. I've been told by the
enemy's archwizard that our warships are badly outnumbered by the fleet of
Honigalus in a battle now taking place off the Vigilants. I have no windspoken
word of the outcome as yet, but we must prepare for the worst. I intend to take
command of what's left of our fleet myself—if any vessels remain afloat upon
our arrival."
"That futterin' great
booby Copperstrand!" Skellhaven exclaimed. "What did he think he was
doing—holding ships in reserve, in case the Continentals snuck up behind him
into
"I presume so. I've been
informed that the southern corsairs are still in port, no doubt waiting to see
how Honigalus fares."
"I'll wager they won't
stay there for long . . . Well, I'll be on my way back to the quay. I'll leave
it to you to whistle up the magical gale. Count on me to take care of
everything else."
"I will," said
Conrig.
He watched the tattered,
indomitable viscount stride from the throne room, then summoned Tayman and
Feribor, who waited with most of the other Heart Companions for the prince's
orders. Swiftly, he informed them of his decision to sail south, delegating
each a particular area of preparation. "We'll take the surviving armigers
with us, but no one else save my brother Stergos. Find him for me, Feri, before
you undertake your other tasks, and send him to my private chambers. I must
know how that damned sea-battle is going."
The count's saturnine face
showed a flicker of irony. "I should think the Lady Ullanoth could give
you a better account, using her superior sorcery."
"So she could,"
Conrig retorted grimly, "if I could only find her! The woman seems to have
vanished."
Conjure-King Beynor woke
from his latest dream of pain just before noon. He lay motionless in his bed,
hardly daring to believe that the agony inflicted by the Lights was temporarily
in abeyance, savoring the small comforts of being horizontal, warm, and cradled
in softness.
His
eyes opened. Sunshine shone through the windows of his chambers. Through the
open bedroom door he beheld the reassuring sight of the twin guardian
Fortresses, glowing in the golden monstrance out in the sitting room. His hand
groped for the two chains hanging about his neck: Subtle Armor and Shapechanger
were there and safe, as was the Great Stone Weathermaker, which he kept always
on his finger.
She had
not stolen them while he slept.
Stolen
sigils . . . and soot on the soles of his bare feet!
The memory returned like a
crash of cymbals, the remarkable insight that had struck him as he lost
consciousness the day before. With caution, he levered himself upright and
lowered his feet to the floor, where fur-lined slippers waited. Still
pain-free. Was he growing stronger, becoming inured to Weathermaker's baneful
side-effects?
The temperature of his room
was still reasonably comfortable, but the fire was almost out. Good! His
windsight showed only blackness inside the chimney. If the sigils taken by
Ullanoth were concealed up there, they were buried in cinders and soot.
He slipped on a velvet robe
and went to the hearth, where he easily quenched the last glowing peat coals
with his talent. Nevertheless, he'd still be forced to wait a bit until the
iron damper and the firebricks of the flue were cool enough to permit him to
search.
He rang for breakfast, then
poured some of Lady Zimroth's nerve-stimulating elixir into an
emerald-encrusted goblet and drank it down. Immediately, he felt energized and
decided to discover what events had transpired while he slept. He put on a
heavy fur coat, shut down the Fortresses, and went out onto his balcony to
scry.
The day was clear and
extremely cold, with a light northerly breeze. It was, he realized, Leap Day of
the Boreal Moon—traditionally a portentous time for the
Closing his eyes and bracing
himself against the stone wall, he sent his wind-sight soaring southward. And
there it was: Copperstrand's eight barques and eighteen frigates engaged in a
desperate melee against forty Didionite men o' war, and clearly getting the
worst of it. As Beynor watched, enthralled, fusillades of tarnblaze bombshells
from three fast-moving enemy two-deckers raked the Cathran flagship, toppling
its tall mainmast. A few moments later, the Conjure-King's windsight was
blinded by a spectacular silent explosion that virtually obliterated the
crippled three-tier barque, beyond a doubt killing every soul aboard.
"Cathra's
whipped!" the delighted king whispered. He refocused his overview again
and again from differing perspectives, watching the Cathran battle line break
in three places. Some defending ships allowed themselves to be trapped between
the island reefs and the onrushing foe and were being driven onto the rocks.
Others, outmaneuvered by the more agile vessels commanded by Honigalus, had
been devastated by tarnblaze and were sinking or being forced to surrender. At
length, when the scene was almost entirely masked by clouds of smoke, two
barques and three frigates flying Cathran colors burst out of the turmoil and
fled westward toward
Beynor cut off his scrying
and excitedly bespoke Fring, the Crown Prince's windvoice.
"Is the battle over?
Has Honigalus won? I oversaw Cathran ships running away!"
The laconic reply was some
minutes in coming. The fighting is not quite finished. But Didion is
triumphant, King Beynor, beyond any doubt. Not a single ship of ours has been
lost. Twelve of the foe have been sunk—including their flagship—five have
surrendered, and five more have fled.
"Excellent! Convey my
congratulations to Prince Honigalus. And ask him what he intends to do
next."
Again
there was a delay. Then:
Didion's battle losses
are minor. Three of our great ships-of-the-line suffered consequential damage
and will have to retire to Continental ports for repairs, taking our wounded
with them. The rest of our war fleet will await the arrival of our allies, who
are expected to bring provisions and fresh stocks of munitions. After the
rendezvous and reinforcement, we will proceed to
Hearing these tidings for
the first time, Beynor felt his heart contract within his breast. So Conrig had
mounted a successful land invasion in spite of all his efforts! But the
situation was far from hopeless. Didion would never surrender while its new
king lived and was poised to fall upon Cala. And the second son of Achardus,
Prince Somarus, still headed a sizable army capable of retaking Holt Mallburn.
"Please
convey my condolences to King Honigalus upon the death of his royal father and
the queen. I can only presume the villain Conrig was abetted in his conquest by
malign Beaconfolk sorcery. No commonplace magic could possibly have hidden his
invading army from my scrutiny."
So you say, Conjure-King . . .
Beynor winced at the
windvoice's cynical tone. But there was no way the Didionites could know for
certain that Ullanoth and her sigils were assisting Conrig. Curse her! What
would she do next? It was imperative that he track his sister down and devise
some way to destroy her, perhaps using Weathermaker. Might it be possible to
direct the Great Stone's thunderbolt at her without knowing her precise
location? Nothing in Rothbannon's writings indicated that the sigil was capable
of such a deed, but
King Honigalus of Didion
presents his compliments to the Conjure-King of Moss, and assures him of his
continuing goodwill and deep regard. When the time is appropriate, please
initiate a brisk wind out of the southeast to speed our Continental allies to
us. Needless to say, these fair winds must be judiciously sustained to assure
the final vanquishing of our mutual enemy.
The pitiless bastards! Would they never allow him a single day to
recover?
Beynor managed to say,
"When it's convenient, I'll consider the request of my esteemed
fellow-monarch, Honigalus. Meanwhile, let him savor the triumph which I already
helped him to achieve."
In a smoldering fit of
pique, he cut off the windspeech dialog with Fring and put all thought of the
Didionite armada out of his mind. Let them wait for their bloody wind. He had
more vital matters to consider.
Sweat beaded his brow and
drenched his fur-swathed body. His earlier sense of well-being had totally
evaporated, and he stood trembling in reaction to the terrible news of Holt
Mallburn's fall and the sure knowledge that Ullanoth had brought it about.
"Shall I scry the city
and learn the truth of what she's done?" he asked him-self aloud.
"No. Better use Weathermaker against her without delay."
He re-entered his chamber,
shut the balcony doors, closed his eyes to shut out the brilliant sun, and forced
himself to breathe slowly and deeply, all the while trying to suppress the
uneasiness that burgeoned within his breast.
"But what if I'm asking
the Lights for the impossible? What might they do to me then? Father confessed
that an arrogant demand made by Mother, using Destroyer, brought about her
appalling death ..."
Beynor heard a laugh. It was light, feminine, familiar.
Falling
to his knees, he was almost paralyzed by a premonition of what was about to
happen. Haltingly, he began to speak the spell reactivating the Fortresses.
Then he'd retreat behind Subtle Armor so that even her Sending would be
power-less to harm him
Beynor! I have something important to say to you.
As her
voice came to him on the wind he uttered a mewling cry, like a fretful infant,
and clapped his hands over his ears. "No, damn you! I won't listen!"
But his
sister bespoke his reeling mind, and he was helpless to ignore her.
Our own conflict is
nearly over, Brother, and you are defeated. Think on it! There is now no place
in the world where I may not reach you. Your Fortresses are no barrier to me.
Even if you remain inside their spell of couverture, you still solidify my
Sending, which you cannot harm because of Interpenetrator. Furthermore, I have
empowered a new Great Stone named Subtle Loophole that now enables me to watch
you, wherever you may hide, and also listen to every word you speak ... True,
you may shield yourself temporarily from my wrath by activating the Armor sigil—but
its spell is no more than a prison. Enveloped within it, you are deprived of
food and drink as well as all physical contact with the world around you. You
cannot wear Subtle Armor for a single day, much less for the rest of your life.
"Go away," he moaned. "Sky Father! Moon Mother! Have
mercy!"
Her windvoice was kind. It
is I who will have mercy on you, Little Brother, although you murdered our
father and deserve none. If you hope to live, you must make public confession
of your crime, atone for it, and relinquish the crown of Moss and all of your
sigils to me.
"Never!" he screamed. "I'd rather die!"
I'll give you a single day to consider the matter. No more. Farewell.
He lay in a heap, almost
senseless, until a warm hand touched his brow and caused him to start up in a
panic. But it was not Ullanoth's terrible Sending standing beside him, only the
grey-robed form of Lady Zimroth, the High Thaumaturge, who had his permission
to penetrate the Fortresses. Her lined face was suffused with tender concern.
"Your
Majesty! Oh, my poor dear boy, how can I help you? Did I not warn you against
overuse of the Weathermaker stone? Is it the Lights who have stricken
you?"
"Just . . . help me to
a chair. I'll be all right soon. The Lights haven't harmed me."
He managed a feeble chuckle. "No more than they ever do. I was only
over-come for a moment."
She
assisted him to his feet and led him to a seat by the dead fire. "Your
chambers are freezing cold. I'll call the slaves to stoke up a blaze—"
"No!" he said.
"Not yet. But do give me a sip of your invigorating elixir, and then go
and bid the kitchen hasten with some hot food."
She poured the medicine and
held it to his lips. When he had drunk it, she patted his shoulder. "Just
sit quietly, dear. I'll be back immediately."
When she was gone, Beynor
rose on unsteady legs and stepped into the ashes of the cavernous fireplace. He
pushed the damper wide open and thrust his hand up into the filthy opening,
scrabbling blindly.
A
shelf, piled deep in soot!
He searched the mess, feeling
from one side to the other and finding nothing. But then, almost out of reach
back in the far left corner, his fingers touched a single small thing, smooth
and hard and oddly shaped. Not the wand-shaped Destroyer, but .. .
He drew forth the Unknown Potency
with a blackened hand and stared at it. Exerting his talent, he banished the
soot to the ashbed, then stepped out of the fireplace and dropped into a nearby
chair.
The twisted ribbon of
moonstone gleamed clean in his upturned palm: the sure answer to all his
prayers, if only he had the courage to make use of it.
"Snudge! Wake up!"
The boy groaned. Someone was
shaking his shoulder, and none too gently. It was the prince, with the
somber-faced Doctor Arcanorum at his side.
"Forgive me, Your
Grace. I worked for some time on the task you assigned me, but with no success.
I'm afraid that I fell asleep." He hauled himself into a sitting position,
noting that the day was now far advanced. "All the same, I'm certain that
she is somewhere close by." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "We'd
be well advised to keep that in mind."
"Con,
I told you so!" Stergos said.
The prince pretended not to
understand. "No doubt she's engaged in important business of her own. But
we must hope that the lady reveals herself soon—for I'm heading back to Cathra
immediately, sailing on a Stippenese vessel commandeered by Lord Skellhaven,
and I'm counting upon the princess to supply us with the necessary fair
winds."
"Are
you indeed!"
Both
Snudge and Stergos uttered cries of alarm as Ullanoth—or was it her
Sending?—abruptly became visible before them. Conrig took her hand and brushed
the back -of it with his lips, while giving every evidence of happy
surprise.
"Welcome, my dear! And
thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all you have vouchsafed to me and
my people. I had hoped to express my gratitude privately before this. Are you
well?"
She nodded rather distantly.
Snudge and the doctor she totally ignored, as though they were nothing but
faithful dogs keeping the prince company. "I'm rested and almost recovered
from the stress of empowering the Loophole and Weathermaker. There's a bit of
bother involving my brother Beynor, but it needn't concern you at present. Tell
me more about your plan to return to Cathra. I presume you intend to take
personal charge of the defense of
"I must. Lord Admiral
Copperstrand is dead. His deputy, Zednor Woodvale, concurred in the disastrous
decision to split our fleet and shares responsibility for a disastrous defeat off
the Vigilant Isles. God knows what Woodvale will do when Honigalus is
reinforced by corsairs from the Continent. A windspoken message from King
Olmigon has informed us that my father's admonitions to the fleet officers are
still being ignored." He smiled grimly. "But they won't ignore
me."
"The Continentals
gathered in Nis-Gata have not yet left port," she said. "Rumors have
reached them from Andradh that a force of twenty strongly armed Tarnian
frigates is coming to the aid of Cathra. Unfortunately, I know for a fact that
the Tarnian ships are still delayed in the
"Can
you do anything about it?"
"Perhaps," she
said, shrugging, "if my recovering strength is not exhausted by other
difficult magical endeavors. You say you wish me to propel your ship south-ward
at speed. This is no trivial request."
"But a vitally
important one, my lady! And I must leave at once. This evening. I hope you
will accompany me and lend your good offices as I confront Honigalus—"
"This is not possible.
My brother must be dealt with. Beynor poses a grave threat to all of us, and
not only because of his continuing assistance to Didion. At the moment, I have
him off balance and vulnerable, and I must press my advantage."
An
emotion that might have been relief touched the prince's features. "But I
need you at my side, lady!" he protested.
She
made a quelling gesture. "I dare not take myself far away from Moss at
this time. Not when the regaining of my stolen throne is within my grasp."
She came close to him and placed one hand on his heart. "Conrig, I've
vowed to assist your cause. I've already risked my life for you. Trust
me."
"Of course," he said, embracing her. "As you must trust
me."
She lifted her face to be
kissed, and after the chaste salute, whispered, "I love you, Con, and it
breaks my heart that we must part, even for a brief time. But both of us have
kingdoms to secure. My homeland must seem a poor place to you, compared to the
grandeur of Cathra. But I will have it. I must have it! So I leave you now, but
I shall grant you the magical winds you need—and return to you as soon as
possible to guarantee your victory."
"I understand," he
said, letting his arms fall and stepping away from her. He still smiled, but
there was only emptiness in his eyes.
He does not love me, she realized.
Had she ever truly believed
it? But neither did he love his barren wife. Perhaps he was one of those who
are incapable of surrendering to another, as she once believed herself to be
before her traitor heart betrayed her.
She asked herself: Does it matter?
That remained to be seen.
She turned, seeming to take
notice of Vra-Stergos for the first time. "Doctor, perhaps you will be so
kind as to bespeak me in two days or thereabouts, with news of Cathra's
struggle against Honigalus."
"I will do my best to
contact you, lady," the alchymist replied anxiously, "but our ship
will have traveled far to the south by then, and my talent may be insufficient
to bridge the leagues."
Her glance flickered toward
Snudge. "Then perhaps you will have to seek help from others with more
strength."
She
smiled at the startled look on the faces of the brothers, then vanished.
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