“Yes, Father.” She took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
“If it’s any comfort,” the king said gruffly, “Hon and Somar say the boy-king is comely enough. Tall and skinny, black eyes, blond hair. A bit of an odd fish, but that’s to be expected if he’s a magicker. We’ll make the betrothal contingent on his fulfilling his promise to abolish the Wolf’s Breath, so you won’t have to go to him right away.”
“Thank you, sire.”
The king gave her shoulder an awkward pat, then turned away from her, raising the spyglass to his eye again to inspect the approaching boats. “And if I don’t fancy the cut of young Beynor’s bloody jib, you won’t go to him at all! Now go attend your mother.”
==========
The string of coaches waiting to carry the Didionite royal party to the castle had been scrubbed and polished and fitted with new upholstery. Crystal vases inside held skimpy bouquets of blue gentian, marshmallow, pink heather, and ball-buttercup. Thanks to wizards disguised as coachmen, the horses appeared to be fine matched pairs, all of them glossy black with manes and tails woven with green-and-yellow ribbons. The footmen who assisted the distinguished guests to board wore smart livery of green leather emblazoned with Moss’s heraldic golden swan.
King Achardus and Queen Siry were led by Grand Master Ridcanndal to the lead coach, which was larger and grander than the others and drawn by four horses rather than two. Crown Prince Honigalus and his wife Princess Bryse, and Prince Somarus and his wife Princess Thylla settled into the second coach. The third bore Princess Risalla, Onestus and his nurse, the infant Princess Hyndry, who was the daughter of Somarus and Thylla, and a second nursemaid. Six other coaches accommodated the lords and ladies of the royal retinue, including Archwizard Ilingus Direwold and his five assistants. The Mossland dignitaries were to bring up the rear in open equipages, heavily swathed in festive bunting, that had a suspicious resemblance to gussied-up farm carts. Files of warlock-knights in fearsome black armor and emerald cloaks were poised to ride on either side of the cavalcade, while phalanxes of the Didion Royal Guard, armed in barbarian splendor and with black-and-white pennons flying, took up marching positions in the front and rear.
Queen Siry arranged her robes and peered out the coach’s window at the banner-decorated buildings along the quay. They all seemed to be in good repair, and the wharves were full of bales and chests of goods, guarded by armed men.
“The place looks prosperous enough,” she murmured to her royal spouse. “And have you noticed that the sky is blue—except where the stormclouds are piled up? There’s no fallen ash on the ground surface or rocks, either. King Beynor told our sons true when he said that he had turned the Wolf’s Breath away from Moss.”
“Apparently so,” the king said sourly. “But remember that the diverted ashfall landed mostly on us! And the young trickster was very evasive when Hon asked why he couldn’t turn off the volcanos immediately, rather than doing it next spring. One might almost suspect that the eruptions are about to peter out of their own accord, and Beynor simply intends to take credit for it.”
The queen frowned. The second wife of Achardus, she was an austerely handsome woman, very tall and slender, whose golden hair was fading now that she was three and forty years old. Her gown was black with panels of scarlet, and she wore a brocade cloak in the same colors. Her headdress had stiffened wings of red silk gauze springing from a crown glowing with rubies and pearls. Like her husband, she descended from the warrior queen Casabarela, who had subdued the rebellious dukedoms of interior Didion and ushered in a long period of national prosperity that had been unfortunately terminated by the advent of the lengthy Wolf’s Breath.
“Look over there,” Queen Siry said. “That old woman coming toward us! See how the crowd gives way before her? I wonder why?”
Some members of the Glaumerie Guild had noticed the approaching crone as well and were pointing her out to the mounted warlocks in some agitation. The knights in black armor spurred their steeds, as if to intercept the woman, but the animals only reared and wheeled about in place, neighing loudly, while the warlocks flailed the air with magical swords that obstinately refused to burst into flame.
Grand Master Ridcanndal himself came trotting up on a white palfrey when it became evident that his underlings were not going to be able to prevent the hag from approaching the coach carrying Didion’s king and queen.
“Give way!” he shouted at her, brandishing his golden staff of office. His great red nose shone like a ripe apple. “I forbid you to approach, on pain of death!”
“Woe!” the old woman howled. “Woe and wrath! Terror and desolation! Death and perdition!” She held high a small thing that shone brightly green, and at the sight of it, Ridcanndal and his minions shrank back. A gasp went up from the astonished crowd. “Go home, King and Queen of Didion! Leave this place whose splendor is only a hollow sham. Go before it’s too late!”
Capping her admonition with a marrow-freezing wail, she vanished.
The bewitched horses of the warlock-knights at once left off their frenzied whirling and were calm save for the odd snort and rolling of eyes. The townsfolk murmured to one another and snickered, more diverted than frightened by the spectacle. Abashed Guild members, who had tried in vain to approach the troublemaker, retreated to their carriages, leaving Ridcanndal sitting his horse, grinding his teeth in frustration.
“Fewmand me soul!” King Achardus cursed. Then he bellowed, “You, Guild-master! To me! Who the hell was that caterwauling old broomstick?”
Ridcanndal hastened to the coach window. Bowing low in the saddle, he stammered, “A m-madwoman, Your Majesty. Some deranged, malicious creature from the swamps, perhaps one with a petty grievance against the Crown, who had a vain hope of disrupting the Conjure-King’s peace on this historic day.” He smiled in a manner intended to be reassuring, his two oversized upper teeth gleaming horribly. “But as you see, she’s gone now without doing any harm.” He took a deep breath. “So let the procession commence! Onward to Castle Fenguard!”
Trumpeters sounded a flourish, drummers struck up a thunderous beat, and the swords of the warlocks finally burst into flame. With a cracking of whips, the coaches began to move slowly up the lumpy cobblestone street while the populace cheered and whistled. Every one of Royal Fenguard’s burghers, householders, crafters, and slaves who was not sick abed or too enfeebled to walk had been turned out to salute the guests. A few men strategically positioned in the front row of spectators waved Didion’s bear’s-head flag. The others flapped dish-clouts or tossed up their hats as the coaches rolled by and their occupants waved from the open windows.
“Well, that was a bizarre sort of welcome,” Crown Prince Honigalus said, his lips twisting with mirth. “Not exactly the best omen for a coronation. Young Beynor will hang that old biddy by her heels from the battlements when he catches her.”
“If he does,” Prince Somarus said. “Still, you have to admit the little jackanapes brought out a decent crowd.” Like their royal father, he and his brother wore parade armor and white surcoats emblazoned with Didion’s bear.
“The town doesn’t look nearly as decrepit and filthy as I remember it,” his older brother said. “Of course, it was the dead of night when we picked up Beynor for the trip south, and we had no time to waste sightseeing before the tide turned.”
Princess Thylla said, “I heard Ilingus tell Queen Siry that there’s sorcery at work, making the old buildings and the crumbling castle look as good as new.” She was an elegant young woman of fastidious habits, quick to find fault, and unlike her full-fleshed sister-in-law, she had not let childbirth deprive her of her willowy form. Her hair was russet, caught up in a fantastic headdress of gold net and pearls, and her gown was particolored velvet in fiery hues, embellished with jewels and trimmed with costly green vair. “Somarus, I insist that you have the archwizard inspect our quarters thoroughly before we settle in. If we’re being hoodwinked and the rooms are dirty and full of spiders and mice, then I’m taking myself and our daughter back to the flagship at once—and to blazes with royal protocol!”
“I heard Ilingus speak of glamour, too,” Crown Princess Bryse added. She was ordinarily easygoing and pleasant, but the harridan’s tirade had shaken her composure badly. “I feel exactly the same as Thylla. How can we be sure that some Mossy necromancer won’t smite all of us with infernal enchantment while we’re sleeping? You men may have put your families in danger insisting we come with you to this dreary hole. Our own palace is cheerless enough these days, but at least it’s safe.”
“Now, love, don’t fuss!” Honigalus was conciliatory, as usual. He was thickset and swarthy, like his father, but lacked the king’s massive stature. Although his clean-shaven features were coarse, he had an equable disposition and an astute mind. Achardus had placed him in charge of Didion’s navy, while his more volatile younger brother Somarus commanded the army.
Bryse sighed. “I’m not fussing, my darling. Only begging you to be cautious.”
He gave her a comforting smile. Like himself, she was not physically imposing, nor was she fond of extravagant dress. Her gown and headdress were black trimmed with white, as befitted the Crown Princess of Didion, but she was only modestly adorned with jewels. Her marriage had been an arranged one, intended to secure the loyalty of the mighty Vandragora clan of Firedrake Water. But it had soon become evident that the prince and princess were actually a perfect match of intelligence and physical warmth. By the time Onestus was born, they were steadfast in their devotion to one another.
“I intend to be cautious,” Honigalus told her. “Every bedchamber will be guarded by a squad of our own warriors and by Ilingus’s assistants, on the lookout for black magic. But nothing bad will happen, be assured! Young King Beynor needs our approval and wants to impress us. That’s the only reason he magicked up his town. God knows Holt Mallburn could use some serious reconstruction work after three years of the Wolf’s Breath. Why, if magic could restore our capital city and lift the people’s spirits, I’d bring adepts of the Glaumerie Guild back home with us in an eyeblink.”
“You would, too,” Somarus muttered. “Without a second thought of what else the bastards might get up to.”
“Brother, let’s not quarrel. You know we have no intention of allowing alien wizards inside our realm, nor has Beynor asked us to do so.”
“You’re too trusting,” said Somarus. “I’ve said that from the beginning of our dealings with the boy.”
“And you’re too suspicious. We’ve already signed the Treaty of Alliance with Moss. Now it’s up to Beynor to prove his worth to us. Abolishing the Wolf’s Breath is all-important, but we’re also counting on him and his coterie to use their scrying talent to alert us to any surprise attack by Cathra—a clear and present danger, as well you know. The Conjure-King has magical resources for oversight that poor old Lingo and even Fring can only dream about. He’s already proved that to us—and to the corsair captains down in Stippen and Foraile, too.”
“Oh, you’re right, as usual,” Somarus replied ill-naturedly. “But we ought to guard our backs every inch of the way dealing with him. And the very thought of sweet little Risalla being bedded by that uncanny twerp—” He shook his head in disgust.
Queen Cheyna Garal, Thylla’s second cousin and the first wife of King Achardus, had died bearing Honigalus. Somarus and Risalla were the issue of the king’s second marriage to Siry Boarsden, and the brother and sister loved one another dearly in spite of their opposing temperaments. Somarus had his mother’s towering, graceful form and her chiseled good looks. Like Risalla, his eyes were bright blue. He had wavy sandy hair, a drooping reddish moustache, and eyebrows to match. His impetuous nature and ferocity in battle had caused him to be idolized by the quarrelsome warriors of the Forest Realm. Some of the dukes and robber-barons had even dared to say that he would make a better king than Honigalus…
“Father agrees that Risalla won’t wed Beynor unless he does what he’s promised,” the Crown Prince said. “If our dear sister does have to go to him, we’ll be sure she has a personal retinue of strong warriors to keep her secure.”
“Against sorcery?” Somarus lifted one fox-colored brow in skepticism. “Don’t be a simpleton, Brother.”
Princess Thylla had been staring disconsolately out the open window of the coach as the princes conversed. She suddenly uttered a squeak of surprise. “What was that? Some sort of animal ran right in front of the horses!”
The team of blacks shied momentarily, making the coach swerve, but the wizard-coachman soon had them back under control.
“There’s another!” the princess exclaimed. “See? Coming from between the legs of she crowd. Long and slinky, like a large brown and white weasel. I see more of them in the road. We’ll surely hit one! Oh, mercy—”
Thump.
The coach bounced, Bryse and Thylla screamed, and at once a pungent and offensive odor filled the air.
“Good God!” Somarus cried. “What’s that appalling stink?”
“I think we’ve run over a polecat,” Honigalus said dryly. “In Moss, I believe they’re called swampfitches. The creatures are supposed to be edible, once the musk-glands are removed.”
Somarus was peering out his window. “The things are everywhere! I can see at least a dozen afoot and a couple that must have been crushed by Father’s coach. The crowd is scattering. Those warlocks with flaming swords don’t seem to be able to drive the beasts off. How the devil could—”
Thump.
“Another victim,” Honigalus noted. “Perhaps it’s their migration time—like lemmings.”
“Bugger the lemmings.” Somarus was holding his nose. “Faugh!”
The stench was becoming eye-watering. “Do something!” Bryse cried.
Honigalus began to unfasten the tapes that held the rolled window-curtains of flexible isinglass. “Tell the driver to whip up, Somar. There’s plenty of room‘ in the road now that the townsfolk are fleeing. Maybe we can outdistance the damned animals.“
Certainly the leading coach carrying the king and queen was attempting to do that very thing, with heralds, musicians, and members of the Didion Royal Guard leaping out of the way of the crazed horses amid a fusillade of shouts and curses. The cobbles were littered with discarded banners, drums, and dented trumpets, as well as malodorous furry bodies.