Читать книгу Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale - Julian May - Страница 10

‘TO YOU, GIVER OF OUR MOST VALUED GIFT, FROM THOSE WHO REVERED YOUR LATE FATHER, WE SEND GREETINGS ON THE WIND AND ASK IN ALL FRIENDSHIP THAT YOU RESPOND.’

There was no reply to the combined bespoken hail of the Salka Eminences. Their previous fifty-odd windshouts, sent out at regular intervals throughout a very long day, had been equally futile. The Four were gathered on the highest turret of Fenguard Castle in Moss. The sun was sinking into a billow of fiery clouds on the horizon above the Little Fen.

‘I think the depraved sea-squirt must be dead or gone away to the Continent,’ the Supreme Warrior said. ‘There’s been no news of him for years. We’ve blanketed the entire island with generalized windcalls and the accumulated pain-debt is giving me a hellish headache. I’m ready to pack it up.’ He twiddled the minor sigil that hung about his neck on a golden chain. The moonstone was a Longspeaker, and Ugusawnn and his colleagues had been using it jointly to channel their cautiously phrased salutation toward the human sorcerer Beynor, wherever he might be.

‘The Great Light was specific,’ the First Judge reminded the others. ‘Beynor is our best hope for gaining access to the Demon Seat Moon Crag. Would the Light have said this if the groundling sorcerer were dead?’

‘Who knows?’ The ancient Conservator of Wisdom had slumped into a heap on the parapet, spent by unaccustomed pain. ‘Colleagues, if you intend to continue, you must do it without me.’

‘Beynor may be alive and well,’ Master Shaman Kalawnn said, ‘but unwilling to speak to us for reasons of his own. He and Ugusawnn hardly parted in cordial circumstances. And the disappearance of Queen Ullanoth’s sigils from Rothbannon’s tomb before Beynor could turn them over to us as he’d promised must have been a terrible disappointment to him.’

‘As it was to us!’ growled the Warrior. Several of the queen’s sigils had been Great Stones, which the Salka coveted because they had none of their own – save for the paradoxical Potency.

‘Furthermore,’ the Master Shaman said, ‘if Beynor has been able to windwatch our activities over the years, he might well know that we were able to activate the Stone of Stones without his help – even though he cannot scry the sigil itself. He has thus been deprived of both of his most crucial bargaining assets. No doubt he believes that there can no longer be a fruitful business relationship between himself and the Salka –’

‘And now, when we call to him on the wind after ignoring him for so long,’ the Conservator interjected, ‘he might think we’re up to no good. Is this what you’re implying, Kalawnn?’

‘Precisely, Wise One. I believe we must modify our hail if we hope to get an answer: make it plain from the start that we have something to offer aside from empty protestations of friendship.’

The Supreme Warrior said nothing, while the First Judge grunted in assent and refreshed himself with a cup of viscous ambergris cordial and a fat, lively crustacean.

The Conservator of Wisdom said, ‘What do you suggest, Master Shaman?’

Kalawnn touched his throat with a tentacle digit. The sigil inside his crop sent out a brief pulse of light. ‘The offer must be very appealing. Irresistible, in fact. Perhaps his own choice of several dozen useful minor sigils, first touched by the Potency to abolish their pain-link.’

‘Ahroo!’ the Supreme Warrior bellowed in outrage. ‘Several dozen stones? Once he learns of the limitation, he’ll demand scores of the things! Even hundreds! We already have too few lesser sigils to ensure a decisive victory over the humans.’

The Judge said, ‘Let’s not tell Beynor about the limitation on abolished sigils. Let him discover the catch when it’s too late, as the other human sorcerer did.’

‘I don’t like that idea at all,’ Kalawnn said. ‘What if he demands a demonstration before agreeing to work with us? No…honesty is the best course. If we can convince him of our good faith.’

‘We return to the thorny issue of trust,’ the Conservator said. ‘Why should he believe that we’ll keep our word this time – after Ugusawnn’s earlier mistakes? Realistically, I don’t see how we can make this plan work.’

‘There is something else we might offer Beynor,’ Kalawnn said. ‘Prior to the destruction of our Dawntide Citadel by the tarnblaze bombshells of the human warships, I studied a certain archival tablet – the one that Beynor was so interested in himself. While my scholarship was interrupted by the battle, I did manage to glean some interesting bits of data before we were forced to evacuate. To make a long story short, I believe that the Greatest Stone might be capable of annulling Beynor’s curse directly, making it possible for him to use sigils once again in the normal way. He might already know this!’

‘A lengthy logical jump,’ the First Judge observed, frowning. ‘And one the groundling conjurer might prudently hesitate to make.’

‘Not if he already knows the proper conjuration procedure, ’ said Kalawnn. ‘It might well have been written down on a portion of the tablet that I was prevented from reading by the tumult of battle.’

‘It’s worth a try,’ the Judge said. ‘We could at least make the offer. What can we lose? Beynor might not even be alive…

‘Oh, very well.’ The Warrior spoke in a resigned rumble. He took a firm grip on his Longspeaker sigil. ‘Let’s unite our talents again.’

‘I’ll join with you for one last attempt,’ the Conservator said.

After a brief consultation to get the wording right (for there was always a chance that such a broad outcry might be overheard by the wrong persons) the Four closed their enormous glowing eyes and sent forth a generalized shout on the wind.

‘TO YOU, GIVER OF OUR MOST VALUED GIFT, WE SEND GREETINGS AND OFFER THIS SINCERE PROPOSAL: ASSIST US IN A CERTAIN MATTER, AND WE WILL GRANT YOU FREE ACCESS TO THE GIFT, WHICH WE BELIEVE IS CAPABLE OF LIFTING YOUR DOLEFUL BURDEN. WE WILL ALSO GIVE YOU OTHER ITEMS OF GREAT VALUE AS A TOKEN OF OUR GRATITUDE AND ESTEEM.’

The Eminences disengaged their minds and waited.

Master Kalawnn found that he was holding his breath. Beynor was alive. He was certain of it. Over the years a feather-light, distant presence had invaded his sleep from time to time in the winter months – scrutinizing his dreams, asking him questions, attempting to exert subtle coercion that would carry over into his wakeful life. The Salka shaman had fended off the dream-intruder; but he knew it must have been Beynor, who had been an expert in that rarest of natural talents.

‘So answer us!’ Kalawnn broadcast his own silent entreaty to the strange, tormented human being who had almost been his friend. ‘We need one another, Beynor, and this time there will be no double-dealing, rudeness or condescension on our part. We will treat with you as an equal and share the power of the Known Potency if you play fair with us. At least let us explain what we want and show you what we have to offer.’

Kalawnn listened, as did the others. And just as the sun descended behind the clouds, a gossamer thread of windspeech seemed to emanate from the vanishing solar orb itself.

Hello again. If you have anything to say, be quick about it. I’m very busy.

Before the advent of the Sovereignty pacified the unruly interior of Didion and made safe the Wold Road leading from Cathra to Tarn, Castlemont Fortress was the only reasonably comfortable refuge for travelers between Great Pass and Boarsden. Its guest facilities had once been primitive: a stonewalled enclosure at the foot of the fort’s knoll accommodated pack teams and their drivers, while simple bedchambers and a modest dining area located in the keep above served more fastidious guests.

When Somarus Mallburn assumed Didion’s throne and accepted vassalage in the Sovereignty, the robber-barons and brigands who had infested the Wold with his tacit approval were largely put out of business. Traffic over the pass multiplied tenfold. As a consequence, the hostelry at Castlemont also expanded, welcoming ever-increasing numbers of travelers. Its shrewd castellan Shogadus, now elevated to the rank of viscount, became famous for his hospitality and grew exceedingly wealthy. It was his custom to greet personally and oversee the settling in of illustrious guests who were willing to pay a premium price for luxurious accommodations.

Among these, arriving late on a certain afternoon in Harvest Moon, was a solitary wayfarer who claimed to be Master Lund Farfield, a lawyer journeying from Cala City to Didion’s capital of Holt Mallburn. He was a tall, slightly stooped man with hooded eyes and gaunt features that were sun-damaged and deeply creased. Silvery hair gave him a misleading appearance of middle age. Beneath the inevitable patina of mud and dust, his riding attire was sumptuous. He was also girded with a sword fit for royalty and rode a blood horse with a silver-studded saddle and bridle. The viscount and his chief steward Crick decided that the alleged lawyer must be a high-ranking Cathran nobleman traveling incognito – perhaps a court official on his way to the great ongoing Council of War at Boarsden Castle.

‘I would like the best quarters in your dormitorium,’ Master Lund said in a peremptory manner as he was greeted by the noble host. ‘Price is no object.’

‘Alas, messire!’ Viscount Shogadus was regretful. ‘Our finest suite has already been reserved for the three royal sons of the Sovereign of Blenholme, who are expected to arrive later this evening, along with their retainers.’

Well, well! thought the guest, doing his best to preserve an expression of well-bred vexation. He said, ‘Most disappointing, my lord.’

‘However, we have another chamber, even more splendidly appointed than that reserved for the princes, even though it be a trifle smaller.’ Shogadus gave an ingratiating smile. ‘Since you journey alone, Master Lund, perhaps you’ll find it suitable. It is near to the rooms occupied by the Lord Lieutenant of Cathra and his family – high above the bustle of the inner ward and having a fine view of the countryside and the sunset.’

‘Show me,’ the visitor commanded. He thought: More and more intriguing! Why are all these distinguished Cathrans breaking their journey here on the same day?

Accompanied by a house varlet who carried his saddlebags, the man who called himself Master Lund followed Lord Castlemont and the steward Crick to a chamber in the west tower of the fortress. It had glazed casement windows, a fireplace, thick Incayo carpets on the floor, a tester bed with down pillows and comforter, and its own private jakes.

‘It will do,’ Lund decided, then tipped the steward a silver mark and inclined his head politely to Castlemont’s owner. He ignored the varlet, who scuttled out after opening the window.

‘How long will you stay with us, messire?’ Crick inquired. ‘One night.’

‘There will be an evening meal for special guests in the great hall at the eighth hour,’ Shogadus said. ‘Or if you wish, a repast can be brought to you here.’

‘It will be my pleasure to join you at table, my lord. Thank you for all your courtesy.’

Beynor locked the door when the others were gone, opened one of his bags, and took out a flask and a gilt cup. He had acquired his fine new mount, several changes of clothing, and accoutrements suited to his taste while passing through the great Cathran city of Beorbrook. As a sorcerer, he had no need to worry about money. It had been necessary for him to live modestly during the long years of searching for the lost sigils, so as not to attract unwelcome attention from officials in Elktor, but the time of deprivation was over. Things would be very different from now on.

He sipped mellow old apple brandy and watched the sun descend in the hazy, yellowish sky. The Salka had finally stopped their incessant wind-yammering at him. Stupid brutes – apparently too chickenhearted to use the Potency to abolish sigil-pain even after Kalawnn had managed to activate the Greatest Stone. Perhaps they feared the Lights would exact some terrible vengeance if they were deprived of their vile treats!

How much had their Master Shaman learned about the enigmatic sigil over the years? Obviously, Kalawnn was still ignorant of some of the stone’s secrets (as was Beynor himself). The sorcerer’s imperfect oversight of Kalawnn’s dreams had confirmed that years ago – along with the inconvenient fact that the Salka’s greatest shaman now kept the Potency secure inside his own gizzard. Kalawnn thought that it had bonded to him alone, just as other activated sigils did, and could be touched by no other person.

But Beynor knew that the stone had not bonded to the Salka Master Shaman. The Potency was unique in many ways. Once it had been brought to life, it was immortal and it bonded to no one; any person who knew its manner of working might handle and command it. The one who had made it over a thousand years earlier had intended it as a tool for good; but he had never activated the Stone of Stones, since he came to realize that it could just as readily be used for evil.

As Beynor was well aware, even though he’d long since given up hope of getting his hands on it.

He had been mildly curious when the Eminent Four began calling to him on the wind earlier in the day, but not so curious that he would have risked a reply. Kalawnn, for one, was adept enough to follow a bespoken windtrace back to its source. Beynor was not sure whether any Salka could scry him at long distance and read his lips. He doubted it. Still, it would be unwise to let them know his whereabouts until he found out what they were up to.

He had scried their army in Didion as soon as he crossed Great Pass and the overview of the Green Morass became more or less clear to his superlative windsight. The sight of the monsters’ precipitate retreat puzzled him even more than news of their earlier invasion had. Although the Salka were very effective water-fighters (being able to breathe through their skins as well as through lungs, they could remain submerged indefinitely), Beynor had not thought them capable of such a large-scale military action on land. Piddling border raids or coastal smash-and-grabs were more their style. Those had been going on sporadically for years.

But somehow the Salka had chosen an ideal strike route for this attack. It should have carried their force of nearly fifty thousand warriors straight into Didion’s heartland. Their abrupt halt and belated withdrawal left Beynor mystified. Would they go back to Moss now, or had they another plan in mind?

It was a matter he’d have to mull over. But first, a survey of the fortress’s inhabitants – and then an overview of the three Cathran princes, who had not yet arrived.

From his room, Beynor scried Castlemont for other adept practitioners he might need to beware of. He found two Didionite wizards of modest talent who were probably members of the viscount’s staff, and an elderly Brother of Zeth taking his ease in the inner ward’s walled herb garden in the company of two Cathran noblewomen. Reading their lips as they conversed, Beynor learned that the ladies were Countess Orvada Brackenfield, wife of Cathra’s powerful Lord Lieutenant, and her daughter Nyla. The Brother was their household alchymist Vra-Binon, who had accompanied the family to a secret rendezvous with Orrion Wincantor.

Interesting…

None of the magickers inside the fort seemed likely to be able to detect the windtraces of Beynor’s scrying, so he began to search the highroad between Castlemont and the pass for the cavalcade of the Cathran princes. He found them still more than an hour’s journey distant. Knowing little of the young royals, he spent some time watching them. His vision was mute (only a Subtle Loophole sigil, such as the one once owned by his sister Ullanoth, evinced an oversight with all sounds attending) and the faces of the royal youths were hidden for much of the time by their wide-brimmed hats, inhibiting lip-reading; nevertheless he was able to identify each prince and gain a slight understanding of their characters.

Prince Heritor Orrion was the most interesting. He had apparently suffered some wound to his right arm, which was heavily wrapped and held in a sling. His manner was one of feverish excitement and he kept urging his companions to hurry, even though their mounts were jaded and drooping after what obviously had been a long day’s ride.

I wonder why the Heritor is meeting the Brackenfield family on the sly? Beynor asked himself. The gossip in Elktor was that Orrion was to be betrothed to Princess Hyndry Mallburn, the widow of Duke Garal’s son. But the winsome Lady Nyla seemed to be in a state of twittery anticipation.

As Beynor considered the implications of this, the final hail of the Salka Eminences came faintly into his mind. He muttered an obscenity. So the monsters wanted a favor of him, did they? And nothing small, considering what they offered in return! From his own studies of the Salka archives, Beynor was virtually certain that the Potency would abolish the Lights’ curse on him; but the sigil had seemed hopelessly out of reach.

I can’t ignore them this time, he decided. I must take the risk of answering.

He spoke on the wind: ‘Hello again. If you have anything to say, be quick about it. I’m very busy.’

The precisely directed response came from Master Kalawnn, his old mentor.

Beynor, I greet you after long years of silence and hope you are in good health.

‘I am. Let’s not waste time in pleasantries.’

We presume you know about our recent military incursion into Didion.

‘I also know that your army is now fleeing like woodrats before wildfire and plunging headlong into the sea.’

All part of our strategy, dear friend. We withdraw from one position only to renew the attack even more fiercely in another.

‘Ah. I see…’

What you may not be aware of is that earlier in the year we sent an expedition to the Barren Lands, where we located one of the two lost Moon Crags that provide raw material for the manufacture of new sigils.

‘I know your warriors had a fight up there with the Grand Shaman of Tarn. He whipped your arses with his sorcery, and the crag was mostly pulverized during the ruckus. Too bad.’

We salvaged a small amount of useful mineral. As a matter of fact, our lapidaries are fashioning two Great Stones from it even as we bespeak one another. We intend to employ them as weapons in our intensified attack on the Sovereignty.

‘Good luck. But what do you want of me, Kalawnn?’

We have just discovered the location of the second Moon Crag. It lies on a mountaintop in Cathra. We were informed by the Great Lights that YOU are the appropriate person to climb the mountain and bring us more sigil-making mineral from its summit.’

‘Me?!’

If you agree, we invite you to come to Royal Fenguard as soon as possible. I myself will use the Potency’s sorcery to free you of the Lights’ curse before you set out to fetch moonstone specimens for us. When you bring us the raw mineral, we will reward you with a goodly number of minor sigils to advance your own ambitions. A Strength-Giver would be useful, wouldn’t it? And maybe a Shapechanger or Concealer to disguise you from unfriendly observers? We are prepared to be very generous.

Beynor was stunned. The slimy imbeciles had no notion of what they were offering. Minor sigils? He’d take them, of course, to augment the Great Stones of his trove…and thus enable him to steal the Potency itself from Kalawnn!

But what if the Stone of Stones didn’t abolish the curse? The Salka archival tablet he’d studied had given tantalizing hints, but no certainty. Moonstone sorcery ultimately derived from the Beaconfolk. If the curse still held, using even a sigil rendered pain-free by the Potency might bring down the wrath of the Lights upon him.

There’s no simple solution to this dilemma, Beynor realized. Yet –

Do you understand our proposal? the Salka shaman asked.

Beynor said, ‘We attempted to strike a bargain and work together years ago, Master Kalawnn. Regrettably, the collaboration fell apart due to Ugusawnn’s hostility. If I agree to work with you again, there must be solid guarantees. And your Supreme Warrior will have no part in the operation.’

The Warrior repents his crass behavior, and we other Eminent Ones are willing to be magnanimous. In our earlier alliance, it was agreed that the Salka would take back High Blenholme Island, our ancestral home, using sigil magic. We would then assist you to conquer the nations of the Continent. Does this scenario still meet with your approval?

‘It does.’

So are we agreed? You will help us to obtain fresh sigil-making materials?

‘I can do nothing for you until I finish certain urgent business of my own. Even then, the terms of the new agreement must be clarified to our mutual satisfaction. I tell you here and now that the gift of a handful of minor sigils is totally inadequate.’

This can be negotiated.

‘Where is this Moon Crag mountain? Is it difficult of access?’

It lies in the range you call Dextral, above Swan Lake, and would not be hard for a human to approach and climb. I won’t be more specific until we speak face to face and come to an agreement.

‘I don’t intend to discuss your proposition further until I’m satisfied that I won’t endanger my life or liberty by meeting with you.’

I can assure –

‘Look here, Kalawnn. I said that I was busy with other matters. Consult your fellow-Eminences. Work out a scheme whereby you and I and one other Eminence – excluding Ugusawnn! – can at least meet safely to hammer out the terms of the agreement. It will have to be a generous one. Bespeak me again with a general hail two or three days from now, around sunset. Needless to say, I won’t be staying long in the place where I am now.’

I understand. I will develop a plan acceptable to all of us. Farewell.

The windthread snapped, but Beynor had already traced it along most of its course. It led directly toward Fenguard in Moss. If the second Moon Crag was situated in the eastern Dextrals, the Salka leaders could gain access to it only through a full-scale invasion of Cathra. Even then, their amphibian physique was unsuited to rock scrambling. Using a trustworthy human confederate was the only reasonable option.

That the Great Lights seemed to have recommended his services to the monsters was peculiar and perhaps even ominous, given that they had imposed the curse on him in the first place. It would be the height of folly to act hastily in this matter.

Beynor sipped brandy and watched the sun go down, until he caught sight of a train of torch-bearing riders approaching the fortress from the southwest. It had to be the sons of Conrig Ironcrown.

‘I ought to find out more about these princes,’ he decided, ‘since their father must play a crucial rôle in my plans.’

He set aside the cup and left his room, intending to get a good look at the three young men upon their arrival.

Prince Orrion followed his brother Vra-Bramlow from the Castlemont keep to the herb garden within the outer ward. It was surrounded by stone walls seven feet high on all sides in order to trap sunlight and shield the valued plants from cold winds, and had a sturdy oaken gate, which the royal novice unlatched.

‘She awaits you within,’ Bramlow said. ‘There are lanterns lit to dispel the twilight gloom and to…assist you in your revelation. Certain rooms within the keep overlook the garden, so I’ll remain outside and conjure a spell of couverture to defeat anyone who might try to spy on you. You’ll have half an hour with her at most before we are to dine privately with her parents.’

‘I understand. Thank you for arranging everything, Bram.’ Orrion slipped into the garden and closed the door behind him.

A medley of rich odors hung in the evening air – lavender, hill-thyme, tea-sage, melilot, some sort of mint, even the perfume of late-blooming musk-roses. The herb beds were neatly organized, separated by narrow paths. Nyla had been sitting on a bench beneath a small apple tree heavy with nearly ripened fruit, head bowed and hands folded in her lap. She wore a pale blue gown with a cloak of fine white wool. As the latch clicked she jumped to her feet and ran to him with a glad cry. Her long unbound hair, the color of cinnamon, flew behind her like a banner gleaming in the lantern-light.

‘Orrion! Oh, love, I thought we’d never see each other again.’

‘Nyla –’ His voice broke and his eyes filled. He embraced her with both his whole arm and the truncated limb, which was now free of its sling but still disguised with a grain-stuffed gauntlet simulating the missing member. ‘My dearest, my darling love.’ They kissed and clung together until finally he released her and said, ‘We have only a little time before we must join the others. I have so much to explain – including why I asked you to meet me here at Castlemont. And I must also show you something and ask you an all-important question.’

‘Of course.’ She sensed the unease in his voice and the joy faded from her face.

He took her hand and led her back to the bench, seating himself near one of the iron lanterns. ‘I feared you would not come. That your parents would forbid it.’

‘Father resisted my entreaties. But I told him I’d never take food again if he and Mother ignored your urgent summons and prevented our meeting. My heart told me that something tremendous had happened, and there might yet be a chance for us…’ She trailed off into silence.

He took a deep breath of the scented air. ‘There is. Listen now without interrupting, sweetheart, for what I must tell you is difficult and frightening. Yet if you can accept it bravely, I will be the happiest man on earth.’ He pulled off the glove and began to unwind the disguising bandages from his right arm. ‘An improbable turn of fate has rendered me ineligible for the Throne of Sovereignty. I have been injured. I have lost my sword-hand and lower arm.’

‘Oh, no!’ She burst into tears.

‘Hush. There is no pain. If you can summon the courage, you must look upon the wound. It is no ordinary one. May I roll up my sleeve?’

Her face was white as chalk and tears still flowed from her eyes, but they were wide open. She sat up straight. ‘I will look and not swoon. I promise.’

‘The sight is not so terrible, for the injury is entirely healed through magic, even though it happened less than a week ago.’ He showed her the stump of the arm with its clean pad of skin and flesh showing only faint reddish lines of scarring.

‘But how can this be?’ she gasped. ‘And you say it doesn’t hurt?’

‘Not at all. Listen: what I tell you now you must reveal to no one, not even your parents. I climbed a high mountain with my two brothers, intending to petition…certain supernatural beings for a miracle. I asked them to let it be possible for the two of us to marry, thinking that if they answered my prayer, my hardhearted father would relent from tearing us apart and cancel my betrothal to Princess Hyndry. The uncanny creatures at the mountaintop warned me that my miracle would require a heavy price. I told them I’d pay anything for you. I admit I did not expect to lose my lower right arm! But I renounce it gladly if – if you can find it in your heart to accept a mutilated man for your husband. A man who can never be king.’

Tenderly, she enclosed the stump in both of her small hands. ‘I love you and want you, Orrion. It matters not a whit to me that you have no sword arm.’

‘The Sovereign may condemn me to death,’ Orrion said, ‘or cast me into prison or banish me to some distant place. Even if he spares my life, he might forbid our union.’

‘But if he does not?’

‘This is why I asked you to travel here with your parents. If they will agree to it, I intend to wed you. But my honor demands that I first present myself to my father at Boarsden. There I must relinquish the title of Prince Heritor to my brother Corodon, while submitting myself to the king’s mercy. You and your parents can wait here for Father’s decision. ’

‘Surely you don’t plan to tell the High King that your wound was caused by sorcery?’ She was calmer now, contemplating their future.

‘My brother Vra-Bramlow has thought of a plan. If it succeeds, the king and everyone else save you and my brothers and possibly Lord Stergos, the Royal Alchymist, will believe the loss of my arm was an accident, caused by my own rash misadventure, rather than the result of a magical bargain. Thus far, I’ve managed to conceal the severity of the injury from my own Heart Companions and from Coro’s. I intend to continue the subterfuge until we reach Boarsden, so that no advance news of it will be transmitted on the wind. I’ll seek the help of Lord Stergos, who has always been a kind friend to me, to hide the true nature of my wound and to plead mercy for you and me before the High King.’

Confusion clouded her features. ‘And what if he forbids us to wed?’

‘I don’t think Father will be so cruel – or so wasteful.’ Orrion’s smile was mordant. ‘I can still serve the Sovereignty well as a court official, even one-handed, and give you children of royal blood. As for Princess Hyndry, my twin brother Coro will happily wed her. And even more happily take up my role as Prince Heritor.’

‘I – I’ll pray for such a fortunate outcome.’

‘Now we must go to your parents.’

They kissed, then left the walled garden. Vra-Bramlow joined them in the courtyard and all three went to dine with Count and Countess Brackenfield in their private rooms.

Beynor of Moss, whose peerless scrying ability had easily penetrated Bramlow’s inexpert spell of couverture, had read the lips of the lovers and learned one of the Prince Heritor’s secrets. Now, loitering unobtrusively near the staircase leading into the keep amongst a few other guests, he discovered a second, even greater secret – one that Orrion himself was unaware of.

As the prince’s gaze momentarily met that of the gaunt stranger, he gave a pleasant nod of greeting and passed by –

Leaving Beynor stunned. For the sorcerer recognized what Cathra’s Brothers of Zeth had evidently been unable to discern: like his father Conrig, Orrion Wincantor possessed a minute portion of uncanny talent. Its spark was unmistakable within the prince’s eyes. It was evident that the young man knew nothing of his magical ability, nor did anyone else. He was doubly ineligible to inherit the throne of Cathra!

But what of his twin?

Prince Corodon would now inherit the throne. Suppose that he, too, unwittingly carried the taint? It would be easy enough for Beynor to learn the truth. All he need do was look the prince in the eye. And if both father and son were magically talented –

Beynor’s plan to influence Conrig had been constrained by the king’s intractable personality. He would be hellishly difficult to control, since Beynor could think of no coercive advantage to use against him. But Corodon, that shallow-minded fool, could well provide the much-needed leverage – one way or another.

If only the prince had talent…

‘Messire?’

Beynor’s stream of thought was broken by a polite voice. A castle footman had approached him. ‘If you please, a fine dinner is about to be served to the guests in the great hall. Would you care to partake?’

‘I would indeed,’ Beynor exclaimed, clapping the fellow on the shoulder. ‘Lead me to a good place at table, and I’ll give you a generous token of my appreciation.’

‘With pleasure, messire.’

The two of them ascended the stairs together, chatting pleasantly of inconsequential matters. Beynor showed disappointment when he was told that all three Cathran princes would dine privately, rather than with him and the other privileged guests. But there would be plenty of time tomorrow to make their acquaintance.

On a secluded hummock of dry land near Castle Morass stood a village inhabited by the uncanny small folk called the Green Men. On that night their meeting hall was brightly lit and adorned about the eaves and doorway with green boughs and late-summer flowers. Inside, a band of musicians played flute and syrinx, dulcimer and lute, hand-drum and wood-block, accompanying a chorus of high voices singing a nuptial anthem.

Crowned with purple and white asters, Induna and Deveron danced together, surrounded by a circle of well-wishers witnessing and celebrating their union. The wedding rings on their fingers were made of a shining transparent material resembling topaz. The village headman Cargalooy Tidzall, who pronounced the humans man and wife, told them that the rings were carved from the discarded teeth of Morass Worms, following an ancient Green tradition.