Conqueror’s Moon: Part One of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
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like to believe that.’ Conrig’s face was carefully neutral.
The nautical lord’s eyes blazed. ‘Huh! So you think I might be in league with Didion, do you, Your Grace? Well, you’re wrong! I hate the whoresons and their fancy ships that sail rings around our own while the Diddlies raid our coastal settlements and rape our women. And now that the Wolf’s Breath’s laid the scum low, I say let’s drag ‘em kicking and screaming into the Sovereignty! Civilize Didion once and for all. If you don’t trust me to join your invasion, so be it. But you’ll be losing the services of some of the best fighters in the north country.’
The prince said, ‘Ride with our force, Hartrig Skellhaven, and welcome.’
The viscount gave a curt nod. ‘Can I keep the gold chain?’
Conrig and Snudge returned to the darkened library just as the nightwatch called the midnight hour. The great room had grown cold and the fire burned low. Moonlight shone through one of the long windows. The three Heart Companions were snoring among the stacks and the armigers had disappeared upstairs.
‘Go to your own bed now, Snudge,’ whispered the prince. ‘I’ll disrobe by myself. You’ve done well this day and I won’t forget it. You’re looking rather ill. If you think you might suffer bad dreams over the killing, take a good tot of spirits for a nightcap.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace. Do you think I should watch Lord Skellhaven to be sure—’
‘I believe he’s an honest man, by his own lights. Don’t worry about him. And for heaven’s sake, don’t strain yourself with any more windwatching tonight.’
‘The body—’
‘The duke will see to it. We’ll say the man died of virulent colic brought on by the dicky rabbit pie. Off you go, now.’
The prince entered his improvised sleeping chamber. The great bed with its brocaded tester and coverlet had to have been disassembled and brought in piece by piece, for it nearly filled the entire scribe’s office. There were tarnsticks on a sidetable beside the candle and he struck one. The thing flared, then died. Damp, probably. Conrig cursed and scratched another against the wood of the table. When it also refused to light he used his talent to ignite the wick, closed the door, and removed a silver flask from his trussing coffer. He tossed back a hearty swig of malt liquor and sat down on a stool to pull off his boots —
Froze as he felt the presence, smelled the warm green scent of vetiver.
The bed hangings parted, and a lovely narrow face peered out. Her eyes shone like green jade and her long wavy hair was the color of pearls, covering her bare breasts like a silken shift.
‘You!’ he exclaimed, starting to his feet. ‘Were — were you watching again?’
Smiling, she put up a warning finger. ‘Hush. We don’t want to disturb the others, my prince. I saw you with Vanguard and Beorbrook and Skellhaven, but I did not eavesdrop, for I cannot do lip-reading. My lips are fashioned for other purposes.’
‘Great God, lady-!’
She had left the bed, naked as a fish, and was unfastening his doublet, easing it off, opening his shirt. ‘All has gone perfectly, hasn’t it? And now you shall tell me everything and then claim your reward.’ She opened her arms and the veil of shining hair fell to each side. ‘I assure you that my Sending enjoys every attribute of my true self.’
The prince felt the blood rising within him. He had to force the words from his throat. ‘I-I am a married man, and faithful to my vows.’
A laugh, sweetly scornful. ‘Your sharp-spoken Tarnian wife has given you no children during your six years of marriage, and for some time you have secretly despised her.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘You have even considered putting her aside, now that the alliance with Tarn is no longer crucial to Cathran state policy.’ ‘How did you know—’
‘I know so many things about you.’ She embraced him. Her mouth was hot and tasted of exotic honey. ‘Are you afraid of me, Conrig Wincantor?’
‘No,’ he lied, and crushed her to him, returning the kiss.
Snudge lay on his pallet in the room above. He had drunk a fair amount of ardent spirits and his talent was extinct as a result, useless as a blown-out taper. But his mind’s eye still saw a wrathful face, a wide-open mouth full of rotten teeth, ferocious magic glittering in jet-black eyes. He sensed his own doom approaching, cloaked in paralyzing frost, and his windvoice screamed.
Damn you! You won’t! You won’t do that to me!
His dagger vibrated with the last drumbeat throb of a stricken human heart. He heard the frenzied windcry-Beynor! — and those eyes bright with dreadful life turned flat and dull and dead, only to open again and threaten and freeze and die once more.
He prayed for sleep, but it would not come.
The king had already closed his eyes when Vra-Kilian Blackhorse came into the royal bedchamber in Cala Palace, scowling like the wrath of God, and commanded everyone to withdraw. The hovering courtiers and Princess Maudrayne and her red-bearded barbarian shaman went out obediently, but Queen Cataldise had no fear of her imperious older brother and refused to budge.
‘I won’t have you upsetting the King’s Grace, Kilian,’ she said, gentle but inexorable. ‘He has just taken a sleeping draft. Any news of our troublous son Conrig can wait until morning. Please go away and let us be.’
‘It’s all right, Catty,’ murmured the king. His eyes opened and he beckoned the Royal Alchymist to come close. The two men were the same age, five-and-fifty; but the monarch was a pale and flabby ruin of a man once stalwart and handsome, while the wizard retained a well-muscled body beneath his scarlet robes, and his close-cut black hair and tidy beard were barely touched with grey.
‘I have no news from the Prince Heritor,’ Vra-Kilian said dourly. ‘Stergos was adamant that Conrig would reveal to you the results of the war council’s deliberation only face-to-face. He’s leaving Castle Vanguard on the day after tomorrow, but he has at least three days’ ride ahead of him, perhaps more if the weather turns bad.’
The king gave a groan of dismay. ‘It’s my own fault. He doesn’t trust me, and small wonder … but I can’t wait for him. Every day’s precious now! I must set out for Zeth Abbey while I still have the strength.’ A hand crept out of the bedclothes and gripped that of the alchymist with surprising vigor. The sick man struggled to rise while both Kilian and Cataldise hastened to restrain him. ‘Windspeak Abbas Noachil at once. Tell him to expect me. I will make the pilgrimage and ask my one Question!’
The alchymist’s dismayed gaze met that of the queen. She shook her head. ‘He’s spoken of little else since you left us earfier this evening, Brother. Since …‘the Tarnian healer delivered his final diagnosis.’
‘Your Grace,’ Kilian said to the king, ‘your duty to Cathra is to regain your good health, not endanger it by undertaking a long and arduous journey for such a fanciful reason. Abbas Noachil would be the first to tell you that this so-called oracle—’
‘Nevertheless,’ the king interrupted. ‘I intend to make the pilgrimage.’
‘I forbid it,’ said Vra-Kilian. ‘You are gravely ill. As the Royal Alchymist, charged by Saint Zeth to preserve the spiritual and bodily life of the King’s Grace, it is my obligation—’
‘Be silent!’ said Olmigon in a voice abruptly loud and resolute. Kilian blinked in amazement. ‘The cavalcade will leave Cala Palace tomorrow morning at first light. I’ve already commanded the Lord Chamberlain to make all preparations, and you countermand my orders at your peril, Brother-in-Law! This