“Yes, my lord. Beynor told me that his father Linndal had died, and that he was now Conjure-King of Moss. He claimed to know all about the plan to invade Didion—but I think he believes we intend to strike through Great Pass. He offered to show me freely, without obligation, how to conjure Iscannon’s sigil into usability. This was to be proof of his goodwill. Then he gave me the necessary spells.”
“Good God!” Conrig whispered. “So now you can make the thing work? You can go about invisible?”
Snudge shook his head. “Hear me out, Your Grace. Even though Beynor had told me the magical words, I still declined to serve him. I had already sworn to be your liege man and told him so. He professed to be very disappointed in me and called me a fool. Then he left my dream and I woke. It was still night, a couple of hours before dawn. I was consumed with dread. Only a simpleton would have believed that Beynor had given me the correct spell to activate the sigil. I was certain that if I tried to use it, some terrible calamity would occur. So I dressed, made my way from the palace to the waterfront, hired a small boat, and threw both sigil and book into Cala Bay.”
He gulped beer, keeping his eyes downcast. When neither Conrig nor Stergos spoke, he added, “The sentry at the Dung Gate can confirm my coming and going. Perhaps we can find the boatman, too.”
“We don’t doubt your story,” Conrig said. “Even your dream of Beynor is plausible. My brother was informed on the wind this morning that the young scoundrel is now Conjure-King, and Princess Ullanoth has been removed from the line of succession. We don’t know what has become of her, Snudge. Can you do a windsearch?”
The boy looked up, troubled. “I can try, Your Grace. May I withdraw to your bedchamber? It’d be best if I was alone.”
“Go.”
When the door closed behind Snudge, Conrig said, “I’ll tell the king about Kilian at once. We must lock this traitor in the deepest dungeon, under the strongest magical constraints possible. It’s clear enough now how young Beynor won his loyalty. The knave told our dear uncle he’d give him the spells to activate those baskets of sigils he has hidden away. Or perhaps the two of them intended to share out the magical moonstones and use them to rule the world!”
“Con, we must get hold of those cursed things and destroy them. Deveron did right throwing his into Cala Bay.”
The prince frowned, picked up a piece of golden toast, and took a bite. “Perhaps, Gossy. But what a pity the explanatory book is gone. You might have deciphered the spells where the boy Snudge could not.”
“Don’t even think such a thing, Brother.” Stergos was beyond indignation. His mild face was as adamant as Conrig had ever seen it. “I would never assist you in such an abomination, nor would any other faithful member of my Mystic Order. That Vra-Kilian dared to keep sigils of the Beaconfolk hidden in his sanctum shows the depth of his depravity. He deserves to be executed—for committing treason and for betraying his solemn vows as a Doctor Arcanorum of Zeth.”
“Hmmm. Would that I could dispose of him so easily! But he is our mother’s brother. Even if we could prove treason—and I doubt that would be easy—she’d prevail on the king, and he’d never sign Kilian’s death warrant.
Besides, the Blackhorse family is too powerful to antagonize, especially now that Sovereignty is within our grasp. No, we’ll give Kilian a quick trial on trumped-up charges and find him guilty, then lock him up in a cell reinforced by the strongest alchymical magic. As for his moonstones… we’ll see.“
He finished the last of his breakfast, pushed away from the table, and began to don his black-and-silver brocade doublet and a swordbelt ornamented with white gold. “I’d best lead the arresting party myself. We’ll take the miscreant in charge before he tries to escape. Gossy, how can we fend off any magical mayhem Kilian might attempt? And you did say he’s locked inside his sanctum. We’ll need to neutralize whatever protective enchantments he’s set up.”
“Oh, my, yes. I’ll have to consult Abbas Noachil on the wind.” Stergos’s former air of resolution had evaporated and he was dithering with anxiety. “There are incantations to bind renegade wizards, of course, but we’ll probably need all of the loyal Brethren in the palace, working together, to manage Vra-Kilian. He’s so very strong! And shut up in his sanctum, he has access to significant magical equipment… I’ll make preparations immediately. Shall I assemble the other Brethren in the Blue Foyer when we’re ready? It’s close to the Alchymical Library and will make a good rallying point.”
“An excellent idea. Summon my ten Heart Companions also, and bid them come armed in full panoply. Go now. I’ll remain here a few minutes more, in case Snudge has found Princess Ullanoth. Then I must share this information with our father the king, and draw up a warrant for Kilian’s arrest.”
Stergos left the room, and the prince strode back and forth before the fire, chewing his lip, wondering how his press for Sovereignty might be salvaged if he had to abandon the invasion of Didion. But that might be the least of his worries if young Beynor instigated a sea-attack on Cathra from the Continent—
Snudge came into the sitting room. “Your Grace?”
The prince spun about. “You’ve seen her?”
“No. But then, I didn’t think I would. However, Princess Ullanoth’s tower rooms in Royal Fenguard are enveloped in their usual covering spell. She’s very likely inside.”
The prince brightened. “Yes! That’s sure to be it. Mourning her father, perhaps, or thinking how to take vengeance on her crafty little brother.”
“Beynor’s hidden himself, too, in his own apartments. King Lindall’s body is propped up on the throne, dressed in regal robes. A great crowd of his subjects are parading before it. Some of them kiss his golden slippers for good luck as they pay their last respects.”
“Ugh!” said the prince. “Superstitious swamp-stompers!”
“Do you require anything more of me, Your Grace?” The boy looked listless and drained after his arcane effort.
Conrig’s eyes narrowed. “Snudge, my own talent is small, but nevertheless it often guides me in sniffing out falsehood. Did you tell me the whole truth about that book you stole from Kilian? I thought I sensed you were withholding something from me.”
The boy considered for a moment, then said in a level voice, “I’m your man till my death, Your Grace. I told you what you should know. You must trust me to do what’s best in matters concerning my own talent and other sorcery. I’ll never do you harm, but sometimes I must protect you from things you might misunderstand, that could put both of us in terrible danger. If you can’t accept this, then dismiss me from your service.”
The prince drew in his breath sharply in outrage and opened his mouth. But the cutting words of reprimand died in his throat when he saw the look in Snudge’s eyes—the same stubborn integrity possessed by Stergos. The boy’s loyalty was not blind, and he, the master, could take it or leave it.
“I won’t dismiss you,” Conrig said, sighing. “And I will trust you.” For now…
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Do one final thing for me. Oversee Kilian’s chambers and see if you detect any specific threats to me and my men. We’re going to arrest him with the help of Stergos and the faithful Brothers.”
The short-range scry was easy enough. Snudge closed his eyes and let the wind carry him. The outer rooms of the Royal Alchymist were open, guarded by a pair of novices as usual. Three red-robed adepts were seated at carrels in the library, consulting magical volumes, making notes, and whispering to one another; they were the infamous Brothers Raldo, Niavar, and Cleaton. Kilian’s door was locked, and his chambers were enveloped in couverture.
Snudge described what he had windwatched. “Is there anything else, Your Grace?”
“No. Go practice your knightly arts as usual, but from time to time during the day, go apart and windsearch for the Princess Ullanoth again. If she’s dead, and her mysterious allies unable or unwilling to assist us during the invasion, we may be forced to rethink our attempt to conquer Didion.”
“I’ll do my utmost to find her. But if she lives, I think it likely that she’ll tell you herself, at a time of her own choosing.”
He bowed and left the room, leaving Conrig frowning thoughtfully.
Had the boy really cast book and sigil into the sea? The prince knew he’d have to find out the truth.
fifteen
Vra-Kilian Blackhorse, Royal Alchymist of Cathra, had gone briefly to his rooms after the king’s cavalcade returned home from the pilgrimage, intending to change his dusty garments, refresh himself, and then attend upon the ailing Olmigon, making yet another attempt to learn the oracle’s response to the Question.
Almost immediately he discovered that someone had been inside his inner sanctum—not once, but nine times during the three weeks he was away. A simple mechanical device concealed in the doorframe tripped each time the door was opened, making a small mark on a black wax tablet; the device reset itself each time the door closed. Its operation was so unobtrusive that it was beneath the notice of any thief—whether or not he possessed arcane ability.
With a sinking heart, Vra-Kilian had hastened to open his four windsight-secure cabinets to see whether anything had been taken. Nothing appeared to be missing except the small book that gave a condensed description of sigils and their operation. He took the baskets of moonstones to his worktable and counted them twice, but all of them were there, as were the large volumes dealing with Beaconfolk magic, written in the Salkan tongue.
Kilian muttered a curse as he left his sanctum, poured a goblet of wine to ease his nerves, and settled into a cushioned armchair to think. Could an agent of Prince Beynor have insinuated himself into the palace during his absence? It hardly seemed likely. Why would a Mosslander thief have taken only the small book—the one written mostly in the Cathran language—and left the more valuable Salkan volumes and the priceless sigils themselves behind?
Beynor did covet those sigils desperately, but he had no notion of where they were hidden, nor did he know precisely how many moonstones Kilian possessed. The alchymist had hinted to the boy-wizard that there were fifty in the collection, while the trove actually included more than twice that number. They had originally come from a prehistoric Salkan grave, discovered by another Royal Alchymist of Cathra, a certain Vra-Darasilo Lednok, over seven hundred years ago. That long-dead Brother of Zeth had compromised his vows by preserving artifacts of Beaconfolk magic; but Darasilo, who was both a scholar and a devotee of magical history, simply could not bring himself to destroy such a treasure. Instead he had hidden them away. What was the real harm, when both sigils and spells could never be used? Darasilo bequeathed his hoard to his successor, advising him to destroy the books and the moonstones if he deemed it necessary.
The successor did not. Neither did the Royal Alchymists who followed him in office. Instead, Darasilo’s collection was passed along under a strict oath of secrecy. Venerated as relics of ancient, unattainable magic, they were marveled at and morbidly speculated about, but were never objects of temptation. To empower those sigils would require the cooperation of the few remaining Salka, hideous maneaters whose hatred of humans was legendary. What Brother of Zeth would risk both his life and his immortal soul to acquire magic so perilous?
None… until Vra-Kilian Blackhorse.
He’d only conceived the great notion a little over a year ago, when the political situation on the island had come to a boil because of the continuing curse of the Wolf’s Breath. Kilian’s influence in the Privy Council was clearly waning as the Prince Heritor championed the push for Sovereignty. Conrig’s animosity towards Kilian was immutable, and the alchymist realized that he had no chance of retaining his high office if Conrig became king.
One winter evening, as the wizard brooded over the dead sigils in his sanctum, knowing that even one of them, conjured into life, might give him the power to reverse his fortunes, the brilliant idea came to him. It was so simple that he could hardly believe that none of his predecessors had considered it. Or perhaps they had, but lacked the ingenuity or courage to follow through…
Unlike the people of the southern part of the island, who had long since lost any contact with the uncanny amphibian beings conquered by Emperor Bazekoy, the folk of Moss still shared territory with the Salka. The Glaumerie Guild knew the Salkan language, and so did the royal family. Rothbannon, the first Conjure-King, had taken particular pains to ingratiate himself with Salka shamans. How the fearless sorcerer had acquired the Seven Stones from the monsters and used them to found a kingdom was a cornerstone of Moss’s brief history.
The rulers who succeeded Rothbannon over the next century proved less expert in dealing with the dreaded Beaconfolk and the marvelous sigils they empowered. After several appalling mishaps, the Seven Stones were locked away by the Guild wizards, to be used only in case of some overwhelming national emergency—which fortunately never occurred, Moss being such an insignificant backwater of the otherwise lively island.
The ultracautious tradition had finally been broken by Linndal and his wife Taspiroth, formidable magickers both, who once again made use of the Stones. But the Conjure-Queen miscalculated and died atrociously on a whim of the Coldlight Army, and her husband’s mind foundered as he witnessed her fate. He deactivated the sigils and locked them away.
Which left their children.
Beynor and Ullanoth, like their parents before them, had been taught the Salkan language as part of their thaumaturgical education, so that they would be able to command the Seven Stones, should the need arise. Kilian was aware that the brother and sister were implacable rivals, Beynor favored to inherit the throne and already experimenting with the Stones as his parents had done, Ullanoth choked with bitter resentment until—as rumor had it—the spirit of her mother had gifted her with a few minor sigils of her own.
How that must have dismayed the Conjure-Prince! In his own callow way, he was as politically ambitious as Conrig Wincantor. Kilian knew for a fact that it was Beynor who had convinced King Achardus of Didion to sell warships to Stippen, Foraile, and Andradh, worming his way into the barbarian ruler’s confidence. The boy-wizard hadn’t caused the Wolf’s Breath, but he’d known how to take advantage of it by lying to his gullible neighbors and pretending to powers he didn’t possess.