In short, Beynor of Moss was the very person Vra-Kilian needed.
He had bespoken the aspiring young man, offering him twenty-five precious sigils—“half the number I inherited from my predecessor”—in exchange for Salkan language lessons.
Dumfounded, Beynor had tentatively agreed. But he’d proved shrewder in negotiation than Kilian had anticipated, postponing the actual fulfillment of the bargain again and again. He refused to meet Kilian in person for fear the older man would take magical advantage of him.
And so a temporary impasse was reached. Neither Royal Alchymist nor Conjure-Prince trusted the other, with good reason; but by unspoken agreement, they became co-conspirators, seeking mutual advantage in the increasingly chaotic politics of the island, and hoping that fate would show them the way to achieve their separate goals.
Kilian’s manipulation of King Olmigon eventually culminated in the Edict of Sovereignty massacre; while Beynor (unbeknownst to Kilian) pressed Didion to form an alliance with the Continental nations. The odd bedfellows had been drawn closer by Prince Conrig’s unexpected teaming up with Ullanoth and his decision to invade Didion.
When Kilian learned of the secret council of war to be held at Castle Vanguard, he had informed Beynor, who suggested sending one of his wizards to spy on the meeting, hidden by the Concealer. If the opportunity arose, Iscannon was also instructed to inflict serious injury on Conrig—but not kill him, lest Olmigon appoint a new heir—effectively ending the threat of an invasion.
Iscannon’s death and the theft of his sigil had thrown the plans awry. The alchymist feared that Conrig had learned of Beynor’s complicity from Princess Ullanoth. Perhaps the prince also suspected him of treason…
“And now this mysterious intruder!” the Royal Alchymist exclaimed aloud.
Could he have been sent by Conrig? Had the Prince Heritor ordered his brother Stergos to pry into Kilian’s things, hoping to incriminate him? The little book of Beaconfolk magic was a thing forbidden to the Brethren. Perhaps it alone had been taken in hopes that Kilian would not notice its loss. Conrig might have planned to use the thing to discredit Kilian in the eyes of his Order, paving the way for the alchymist’s disgrace and banishment from court.
There was a way to find out.
Kilian resumed his seat, closed his eyes, and began a windsearch—first of the Doctor Arcanorum’s chambers, and then of the prince’s. The purloined book was not there. Clenching his teeth, he began to search the rest of the palace. But even a superficial overview of the sprawling edifice took over an hour to perform and proved to be fruitless and doubly frustrating. Searching beyond the palace was not within his powers.
While Kilian wasted time hunting for the book, Prince Conrig managed to reach the king’s bedside before him and leave orders forbidding him entrance.
I’ve probably lost the game, the Royal Alchymist told himself, as he waited outside the royal bedchamber. All I can do now is brazen it out and salvage what I can from the wreckage.
==========
Later, after King Olmigon and the prince had conferred and reconciled, Kilian had been forced to accompany Conrig to a meeting of the Privy Council, attended only by the principal members. There Conrig had displayed the writ affirming that he was now the only one who addressed the Council with King Olmigon’s authority. The Royal Alchymist would no longer have a seat after tonight. Henceforth, he would only administer arcane affairs, as his predecessors had.
In a state of eerie tranquility, Vra-Kilian had returned to his rooms. He tried to bespeak Beynor of Moss and tell him of his abrupt demotion and the book’s theft, but the young wizard was not disposed to answer. All Kilian could do was have wind-converse with Ridcanndal, Grand Master of the Glaumerie Guild, and request that the Conjure-Prince contact him as soon as possible. Then Kilian stripped off his garments, downed a sleeping potion, and threw himself wearily into bed. He fell asleep almost at once.
The windspoken voice of Beynor did not wake him until nearly six in the morning, and its tone was ominous.
Vra-Kilian, my friend, you are in very serious trouble. But perhaps you already realize that.
Yes, but he still had to put a good face on it!
“I know I’ve been dismissed from the Privy Council by Prince Conrig, but this may be only a temporary setback. I also know that a clever thief has stolen one of my books of Beaconfolk magic. The other two volumes are safe, as are the sigils and all the rest of my things. There’s no trace of the missing book within Cala Palace. I did a windsearch. So the thief is probably long gone away. The book’s loss is unfortunate, but hardly a catastrophe.”
You’re wrong. The book was taken by Deveron Austrey, Prince Conrig’s personal agent, a boy of sixteen years. He knows now that you have large numbers of sigils in your possession and will certainly report this to his royal master.
“But—that’s unbelievable! I remember this Deveron now. He’s only the prince’s footman. How could a mere housecarl get past my guardian novices and intricate locks? Did you windwatch him in the act?”
No. Deveron is a powerful wild talent, which is why he serves Conrig. His arcane abilities cannot be detected by an adept examiner, and it’s impossible to windwatch him. I’m now certain that he was the one who discovered my spy Iscannon at work in Castle Vanguard and slew him. For this service Conrig created the boy an armiger while you were away on the king’s pilgrimage.
“Blessed Zeth…”
Even worse, I’m certain Deveron took Iscannon’s invisibility sigil. His motive for stealing your book was to discover how to use the moonstone himself.
“The boy’s not in the palace now, because the book’s not here and he’d surely keep it with him. As I said, I windsearched for the book hours ago and found no trace of it. Tomorrow my loyal followers will track down the damned brat, wherever he’s hidden himself in the city, using ordinary means. They’ll slit his throat and retrieve both the book and the sigil. Conrig will be none the wiser if we dispose of the body—”
You don’t know that Deveron’s left the palace. I told you that he can’t be windwatched! If his innate body-shielding talent is strong enough, you may not be able to descry the book as he carries it about. You’re in great danger, Vra-Kilian, and you must flee at once.
“Not so fast! If the boy had already betrayed me, Conrig’s Heart Companions would have been battering my chamber door with the hilts of their swords, rousting me out of bed. Nothing of the sort has happened. No doubt the young knave didn’t want to disturb his royal master’s sleep and decided to wait until morning to give his report. Before he can betray me, I’ll have my men seize him. He’ll vanish as though he’d never existed.”
You’re a shortsighted clodpate, Kilian! I told you that Conrig himself authorized the boy to invade your sanctum. The prince already suspects you of betraying his council of war to me. He’s on to you. This is why he removed you from the Privy Council. Escape while you can. Make your way to Moss by ship. My Glaumerie Guild and I will welcome your great talent.
“But I can’t leave without my things—my magical apparatus and reference volumes. They’re beyond price!”
So is your neck, my friend. Find a way to take the sigils and the Salkan magical books with you, but forget the rest. Slip away from the palace immediately. Conrig and his cohorts may not act against you at once because of your high position and august lineage—but act they will. Be assured of it.
“You—you are able to visualize this dire outcome through your sorcery?”
Silly old fool! I don’t need magic to read your future. Do as I tell you, or go to hell!
“Prince Beynor, I must protest. I’m willing to make allowances for your youth and impatience, but you have no call to speak to me so disrespectfully. I demand an apology.”
I am not a prince any longer, Vra-Kilian, but Conjure-King of Moss according to the decree of my late father. And kings apologize to no one. Farewell.
Kilian listened, but the windthread had been severed.
“Damnation,” he said. “So it all comes tumbling down. I thought I might have a bit more time.”
He felt anger and he felt fear, but both of these useless emotions were readily quashed by his invincible will. He was Kilian Blackhorse, the most powerful member of a great family, archwizard of the realm, the royal counselor who had controlled a king like a doll on a string. He had faced challenges before and conquered them. He’d find a way to prevail this time as well.
He realized that it was too late for him to flee. His betrayal by the boy Deveron would soon be an accomplished fact. If he, Kilian, disappeared, the palace guard would simply raise a hue and cry throughout the city. Even if he did manage to coerce or bribe some ocean-going skipper to carry him to Moss, there was nothing to prevent Prince Conrig from sending a fast naval frigate after him. A pursuing warship could easily stay out of range of his defensive magic and bombard his own vessel with tarnblaze. And that diabolical stuff could not be deflected with ordinary magic.
Why hadn’t Beynor windspoken the bad tidings earlier, when escape might have been possible? The question had no answer, but Kilian was sure that the last thing the newly minted Conjure-King would want was for the secret trove of moonstones to fall into Conrig’s hands. Conrig: in league with the sister Beynor hated more than anyone alive! No, the young sorcerer was still Kilian’s ally, at least until he got his hands on Darasilo’s moonstones.
What to do? The sigils had to be hidden at once, in a place where no adept— especially one loyal to Beynor—could ever find them.
… Yes, of course!
Shivering in the chill, Vra-Kilian left his bed, put on fur-lined house shoes and a heavy robe, threw billets of wood on the dead ashes in the fireplace, and conjured a brisk blaze with his talent. Outside the windows of his bedchamber, dawn already brightened the sky, and he could see lamps moving in the corridors of the opposite wing of the palace. Servants were up and about, carrying cans of hot water for morning ablutions, bringing baskets of fuel to be left outside the chambers of the nobles, lighting braziers and lamps in the common rooms. Before long kitchen boys would tote trays of breakfast to the fortunate. Valets, ladies’ maids, messengers, and courtiers of every stripe would be bustling in all directions as Cala Palace came fully awake with the rising sun.
I know what must be done, Vra-Kilian told himself, as he made his way to his sitting room. But first, the safety measures. It would be a disaster if Prince Con-rig’s men burst in before he was ready.
He checked the tripod and the carved malachite charm that generated the spell of couverture around his private chambers. He had installed it before going to sleep, and it was still functioning properly. No ordinary adept could possibly windwatch him through its shield. Please, God—that included the accursed Deveron Austrey!
So that left the barricade against physical incursion to be erected. He fetched a certain flask from a locked cabinet, let five drops of sizzling liquid fall into a stoneware dish where they formed an evil-smelling puddle, and pronounced a complex incantation.
Foom!
The flash was dazzling, and the smoke cleared in a moment. Now the walls and doors of his private rooms were sealed, impervious to all but the most advanced sorcery or superior siege engines. He’d left the chimney flues unconjured for obvious reasons, as well as the drafty windows. Many an incautious wizard had smothered himself by neglecting the elementary laws of natural science! The flooring was also left unprotected by magic, but for a very different reason.
I’m hungry, he realized. Well, there was probably enough time to eat, and who knew when he’d get his next meal?
He kindled a larger fire in the sitting room and sat down at the table in front of it, where the food he’d had no appetite for last night still waited: spicy finger sausages, two kinds of fine cheese, bread rolls, crocks of bilberry conserve and butter, a silver ewer of mead. As he ate and considered the situation, he felt confident that his life was in no immediate danger—at least, not from the King’s Justice. Young Beynor didn’t understand how Cathran law worked. No one could prove treason against him. Banishment at the royal pleasure, however, was a very real possibility. He would suffer a galling comedown after having been the shadow-ruler of Cathra for nearly twenty years, but at least his life and dignity would remain intact. And the future always beckoned.
However, mending his devastated fortunes would be impossible without the moonstones and the books. Lacking them, he might as well be dead. With them— and with the grudging assistance of the Conjure-King of Moss—he would eventually recover all that was about to be lost. And much more.
Vra-Kilian finished his meal and assembled the necessary tools, then unlocked and entered his violated inner sanctum. The room was very dark and he lit a candelabrum. The iron-bound small cabinet still stood with its door open, as he’d left it, and the sigils were on the worktable. For a lingering moment he fingered the cool stones in their baskets—so wonder-working, if only they were alive! And the books, the other secret legacy of the imprudent Darasilo— once tantalizing Kilian with their inaccessible learning, but perhaps soon susceptible to decryption.
He put the things away, closed and locked the cabinet, then took four small quartz crystals from a blue velvet bag and placed them in a precise square on the container’s top. The bag also yielded a larger prism of quartz, longer than his index finger. He pointed it at the cabinet and said, “Rise!”
The heavy oaken safe-box lifted from the floor and hovered a few inches above it.
“Follow,” Vra-Kilian commanded, gesturing with the long prism. He left the sanctum and went to his bedroom, with the ensorcelled cabinet floating obediently behind. Once there he attacked his bed, tossing pillows aside, tearing off coverlets, feather-tick, and linen, finally hauling the mattress off the undernet and shoving it out of the way. He knelt and swiftly began to untie each leather thong from its hole in the massive bedframe, muttering knot-abolishing spells as he worked. When three sides were free, he lifted the netting and laid it carefully to one side.