Conqueror’s Moon: Part One of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
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Zeth,’ Noachil said, lifting his staff in blessing, ‘and follow me to the imperial sepulchre.’
The assembled Brethren began a solemn chant, and the king was carried up a shallow flight of stairs and into the cloister that led to the emperor’s mausoleum, which was built of native limestone like the rest of the abbey. At the bronze doors decorated with scenes from Bazekoy’s life, a waiting Brother gently restrained Queen Cataldise and Princess Maudrayne.
‘No lay persons may enter during the questioning,’ the abbas explained. ‘Later, you royal ladies may venerate the emperor’s ashes and pray to his spirit, but for now I ask you to accompany Prior Waringlow to the guest-hall.’
A brief look of resentment crossed the face of the princess, who had made no secret of her desire to view the mysterious oracle. But Queen Cataldise said, ‘Come, Daughter,’ taking her elbow, and they went away.
Abbas Noachil said to the king, ‘Your Royal Alchymist, Vra-Kilian, may attend the rite, if you wish.’
Olmigon said, ‘No! And I command that no man will hear my Question or know the answer until I deign to reveal it. Not even you, Father Abbas. I pray you conjure up a spell of couverture to shield me from windwatching during the consultation.’
‘It shall be done.’
Kilian opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it with an audible click of teeth and spun on his heel to follow the women. He had tried to ascertain the king’s Question many times during the trip, without success.
Noachil lifted his staff and smote the bronze door three times. It opened of itself, revealing a vaulted interior lit with scores of candles that burned within blue glass vessels hanging from gilt chains. The stone pillars of the shrine were iridescent black iris-stone from Foraile and the floor was a complex mosaic of lustrous gold and white tiles. At the far end of the mausoleum, which might have been thirty ells square and at least that in ceiling height, rose a dais with a titanic statue of the emperor, carved from marble and lit by azure lamps. The brothers carried King Olmigon to the statue’s feet, where a marker was embedded in the floor.
‘Beneath this plaque lie the ashes of Bazekoy’s body,’ said the abbas. ‘You may pray for a time, if you desire.’
‘Is it here that I pose my Question?’ the king asked, seeming rather disappointed.
‘No. That will be done in the chapel to your right.’
‘Then let’s get on with it,’ Olmigon said peevishly. ‘Time enough for prayers later. The pain’s coming on again, and I don’t want to pass out before getting what I came for.’
Noachil was not offended. In fact, he smiled. ‘So might the emperor himself have said, in your place. He was never known as a patient man.’
He made a sign to the bearers and they carried the king to a dim alcove, shut off from the main chamber by a wrought-iron gate. Unlocking this, the abbas went to a low altar that held a domed golden reliquary about two feet high. On either side were large candlesticks surmounted by blue glass cups with chill flames burning inside. After the brothers had backed off reverently through the gate and retreated out of sight, the abbas unlocked the reliquary and swung its doors wide.
Inside was a sizable crystal urn full of liquid, in which floated a human head.
‘God’s Teeth!’ whispered Olmigon.
Abbas Noachil made a brief, almost playful obeisance to the altar. ‘Good day, Imperial Majesty. I trust you continue to rest in peace. May I present Olmigon Wincantor, High King of Blencathra, here to ask his alloted Question ere he sings his Deathsong. If it be God’s will, give him answer.’ The abbas handed the king a silver bell, directing him to ring it when he had finished, and withdrew from the chapel.
Olmigon felt no awe at this supreme moment, only a quizzical detachment. Could the head actually be real? It seemed made of wax, with an inhuman translucence to the flesh. The eyes were closed. Abundant hair, grey and slightly wavy, floated from beneath an archaic crowned helmet ornamented with rubies and huge blue pearls. Bazekoy the Great had a neatly trimmed moustache and thick sensuous lips that almost seemed to smile. Like so many Foraileans, he had a broad, snub nose.
‘But your body burned in its funeral pyre,’ the king said softly. ‘So how came your head here? If this really is your head …’
The eyes opened: very large, very blue like the candleflames in their sapphire cups.
Is that your one Question, Olmigon Wincantor?
The king started like one touched by a burning coal. ‘No! My God, no!’
A judicious nod. Then I’ll answer gratis, for you’re the first to seek my counsel in three centuries, and I thought I might have been forgotten! … A dream of strange Lights instructed me to render up my life here, on the island where my great conquests began. I came to this place, as directed, when it was a mere hermitage, and my warriors prepared for me the traditional funeral pyre of my people. But before my body was burned the resident wizard secretly removed my head and preserved it, so that I might literally fulfil a rash promise made on my deathbed. That impudent magicker was the one you name Saint Zeth, and I hold him no ill will, for through his boldness I was able to advise and console many a Cathran ruler face-to-face … until the times changed. Times do change, Olmigon! And a wise man accommodates himself and doesn’t cling to worn-out ways and customs. A truly great man, on the other hand, not only accommodates, but uses change to get what he wants.
‘So said my son Conrig.’ The king winced at a momentary stab of pain in his guts. ‘Damned ambitious pup! Wants to be Sovereign of Blenholme — wants glory, like you had.’
Bazekoy smiled. You ‘re jealous, old man.
‘How dare you speak to me like that!’
Jealous! Because your son’s vision is greater than yours could ever be. Because he overrode your pissy-arsed objections and forced you to issue the Edict of Sovereignty. Admit the truth of what I say!
I—’
It was a small-minded attempt to exert power that led you to overrule Conrig’s plan to send a well-armed delegation to King Achardus. Sheer hloody-mìndedness — or else malice, wishing his ploy to fail. Do you deny it?
‘I came here hoping to help my son!’
Nonsense. You came hoping to justify yourself — to Conrig and to history.
Olmigon took a furious breath, intending to defend himself against the oracle’s insults. But a terrible wave of agony swept over him, making him writhe, squelching his pride and leaving any notion of defiance in tatters.
You are dying, the apparition said impiacably. Stop deceiving yourself. For most of your reign, you’ve been a silly fool, surrounding yourself with councilors such as your brother-in-law who flattered and manipulated you to their own selfish ends. When you were finally obliged to admit the Prince Heritor to your Privy Council, you were frightened by the strength of his character and the boldness of his plans. And envious! For shame, old man.
‘I thought the Sovereignty scheme was imprudent. So did many of my advisors. It was both risky and expensive—’
Ah! Now we come to the truth of the matter. The merchants and the great lords whose wealth depends upon them resisted any plan that would raise their taxes — especially during the Wolf’s Breath time, when their profits are already curtailed. Never mind that unifying the island would make it a stronghold against southern enemies. And do away with the wasteful small disputes among the four kingdoms that have cost both money and human lives over the past hundred years.
‘All kings don’t have to be empire-builders.’ Olmigon’s eyes were watering treacherously.
So. Would you have your son’s great dream of Sovereignty die with you? Do you intend to forbid the invasion?
‘Not if it has a real chance of