Authors: Julian May
Tags: #Kings and rulers, #Epic, #Fantasy fiction, #General, #Knights and knighthood, #Fantasy, #Fiction
“Are there any new instructions for me from His Grace?”
No. Nor are there likely to be, until the sealords make their first move.
“Then I request that any new messages to me be relayed via Vra-Mattis. Our armigers still remain ignorant of my talent, and I hope also to keep the knowledge from the two Mountain Swordsmen who will join our party later today.”
Very well.
“The only exception will be news of Lord Stergos. It’s crucial that I bespeak him as soon as possible—but on no account should you say anything of this to the king. There are uncanny forces actively at work on our island, Sulkorig, and not all of them are human. Beynor could not have left the Dawntide Isles without the consent and active assistance of the Salka. I fear that he may intend to use the monsters in an attack against Moss and Queen Ullanoth, now that she is unable to defend herself. And the Salka may not be the only inhuman file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/May,%20Julian%20-%20[Bo...-%20Boreal%20Moon%202%20-
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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon beings involved in Beynor’s mischief-making.
Surely you don’t refer to the Beaconfolk!
“Tell Lord Stergos what I’ve said. Beseech him to windspeak me soon. The fate of all High Blenholme may depend on it.”
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During the brief respites she was aware of her surroundings, although incapable of movement or speech, and remembered why she had come to this terrible pass.
For his sake. Because he had seemed in desperate need of her help.
In hindsight, she realized that his request that she use Loophole must have been motivated by something more than vengeance upon the two fugitive villains. He had certainly been robbed of Darasilo’s Trove. But his desperation had been real. He had been convinced that she was the only one who could find the pair, and she could not help but respond.
And now she would die and spend eternity in the Hell of Ice because of her foolish, unrequited love.
“O Mother,” she prayed, “why was I compelled to do as Conrig asked? Knowing!”
It is one of love’s mysteries.
“And your leading me to find those terrible stones—was that, too, a perverse act of love?”
No, dear soul. It was an act of necessity.
Suspended in the clear void, resigned to the renewal of pain, she did not realize at first that the voice had a Source other than her fevered imagination.
“Mother? Queen Taspiroth? Is it you?”
I
am not your mother. But I am the one who took on her form and bespoke you in a dream long years ago. I led you to the hidden cache in the fens so that you would not be crushed by the power of your brother Beynor. So that you would become Conjure-Queen and bend the destiny of Conrig Wincantor. Both of you are part of the New Conflict that pits the Pain-Eaters against their enemies
.
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“Pain-Eaters?” Her mind was fogged and weary unto death, but the words cut to her mind’s core and kindled a blaze of understanding.
“The Great Lights feed on my pain, and the pain of all who use their sorcery. This came about…
how?”
Through the Old Conflict, when the Lights were first divided. One who was very wise and very foolish played a game as his kind have
—
done from time immemorial
—
thinking it would bring no great harm to the slow-witted game-pieces. But the game’s awful potential was seized upon by others. The Source of the game lost control of it, sought help from Likeminded ones who tried to stem the burgeoning calamity, and failed. Vanquished, the Source was degraded and enchained, while the Pain-Eaters ate their fill.
“You are the one called the Source. Someone spoke of you to me once, long ago. Was it my mother?”
Queen Taspiroth was a brilliant sorceress who delved, perhaps too eagerly, into many mysteries.
But she was consumed before we could enlist her in our just cause.
“You speak of a just cause… but you still play your game!”
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War is a game. A contest between two sides. We Likeminded are vastly outnumbered, but we still must fight. I created the channel between the sky and the ground through which the pain flows. I am the One Denied the Sky and only I can lead the Likeminded to close off the channel.
You will help me either willingly or not, as others of your race have done, beginning with Emperor Bazekoy.
“I have no choice?”
I offer you respite from agony. A temporary oblivion in which you live but have no sentience.
Others who have helped us, but come perilously close to the Hell of Ice in the end as you have done, we have snatched to safety in the same manner. You will not die, but your new existence is not true life. Your consolation—and you will remain aware of it, comforted by it
—
is that the hoped-for victory will restore you again to the world you renounced. And that world will no longer be subject to the thrall of the evil Lights
.
“Why me? You let my poor mother fall into Hell.”
She clung to the power! You took the first steps in renouncing it. And sadly, her life did not have the potential to bring about change, as yours does.
“I don’t understand… and I feel them returning to feed.”
Yes. I must tell you that there is a small chance you may survive their present devouring. You might recover your physical strength, as you did many times before, and reenter the world of groundlings. So the choice you must make now is a real one. Will you join in the New Conflict, or trust that the capricious Great Lights will preserve your life once again rather than destroy you?
“If I let you take me, what will become of my people?”
Some will die, but not in the appalling manner that the Lights kill. War is coming, dear soul, which you cannot prevent. It will be fought in the Sky and on the Ground. If you come to me, the Conflict may be shortened and a good outcome is more likely.
“But not certain?”
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No.
“When I put myself in peril at my lover’s behest, I extracted a promise from him: that if anything happened to me, he’d defend Moss. I
think he’s able to do this more effectively than I, since I’m so weakened. Therefore, I agree to join your side of the Conflict… What must
I do?”
Look upon me.
“Oh, Moon Mother! You’re a Salka!”
No. I’m the One Denied the Sky. One of those you call the Great Lights. But since my essence is incorporeal, it cannot suffer. After the
Old Conflict was lost, the victorious Pain-Eaters would have destroyed all the Likeminded if I had not agreed to this base transformation.
It’s right that I suffer in a Salka body, since in my heedless pride I used them, more than all the other entities, as pieces in my game.
“Source, I begin to understand. But don’t tell me any more. I can’t bear it. lust take me.”
It seemed to swim through the lucent transparency towards her, an apparition as dark as the spaces between the stars, lacking eyes and mouth, both of its coiling limbs cuffed and chained in dull-glowing sapphire links. She extended her hand and touched it.
Immediately she was gone, and the tiny green sphere began to fall. It splashed into the ocean of pain and drifted down towards the abyss of ice, until a black tentacle caught it up and bore it to safety.
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Maudrayne came to her senses after Rusgann and Dyfrig woke, so her first awareness was of familiar voices, the boy asking bewildered questions and the servingwoman doing her best to reassure him. She opened her eyes and saw a canvas roof overhead, held up by a curved framework. Heard clopping hooves. Smelled straw and equine sweat and musty wool. Felt movement.
Rusgann was saying, “We’re riding in a covered cart all laced up tight so we can’t peek outside.
But there’s nothing to be afraid of, Dyfi.
Your mother and I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“The bumps make my stomach feel queer,” the boy fretted. “I need to pee, too.”
A man’s deep voice said, “We’ll stop in a few minutes.”
“Who’s that?” the child said. His eyes were wide with fear.
“I think it’s our old friend, Red Ansel,” Rusgann said dryly. She raised her voice. “Master shaman! Did you hear what the lad said? Stop this wagon at once!”
Maudrayne pulled herself up to a sitting position, but almost at once was knocked down again as the wagon gave a sudden lurch and began to bounce more violently. She groaned, and Dyfrig cried out, “You’re hurting my mama!”
“Hang on,” Ansel called out. “We’re almost to a smoother place.”
They jounced along for a few more minutes, then came to a stop. Those inside the covered wagon heard high-pitched whinnying and the stamping of hooves. Crunching footsteps came around to the rear of the wagon and someone began to undo the fastenings. A moment later, the canvas flaps were pulled aside and Ansel’s ruddy face greeted them with its usual broad smile.
He held out a hand to Dyfrig.
“You’d better come first, lad, and we’ll see to your needs. Put your shoes on. The ground has sharp bits of glassy stuff here and there.
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Ladies, take your time alighting.”
The boy clambered out and he and the shaman promptly disappeared from sight, leaving the princess and her maid crouching amidst a tangled nest of blankets and bundles, staring in astonishment at the strange landscape. Most of the surface of the ground was tumbled, pitted rock—cindery scoria and solidified dark lava. The irregular areas were interspersed with broad drifts of windblown, glittering black sand, unmarked save for the fresh ruts of their wagon-wheels and the dimpled impressions of small hooves. Here and there, pockets of lighter-colored soil supported wiry shrubs and wildflowers. Two enormous volcanos dominated the far horizon behind the wagon, emitting thin white plumes of vapor.
Maudrayne murmured, “Mornash and Mount Donor?… Great God of the Heights and Depths!
Could we have come so far east? How long have we slept?” She climbed out of the wagon-bed, followed by Rusgann.
“Madam, have you any idea where we are?” the maid whispered. An uncanny silence surrounded them.
Maudrayne turned slowly about. The wagon, which she had remembered being drawn by two mules at the Northkeep waterfront, was now hitched to a team of four rough-coated ponies that drooped in their traces. A league or so onward the black wasteland came to an abrupt end in a row of hills, their lower slopes clothed in green and their summits nearly bare. The tallest, towards which the wagon seemed to be heading, was a nearly perfect dome of pale grey rock.
“I’ve never been here,” Maudrayne said, “but I believe we’ve nearly crossed Tarn from west to east. Behind us are the volcanos and goldfields of my nation’s interior. This black desert is part of the Lavalands, a desolate wilderness where nothing human can survive.
Beyond those strange-looking hills lies the sea, the Icebear Channel that separates High Blenholme from the Barren Lands.”
Rusgann was shading her eyes from the hazy sun, studying the hills. “There’s something man-made on that highest baldtop. Like a little castle.”
Ansel’s voice said, “It’s Skullbone Peel, our destination. It takes its name from the rounded shape of the hill.”
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The two women turned about to find him and Dyfrig returning to the wagon from behind an upthrust monolith of reddish rock. “Why?”
the princess asked in a harsh tone. “Why in God’s name have you brought us here, to one of the most isolated and untenanted parts of
Tarn?”
“For your safekeeping,” the shaman said to her. He lifted the little prince into the wagon, saying,
“Wait inside for a few minutes, then I’ll show you something interesting.”
“But I’m hungry!” Dyfrig protested, thrusting his head from between the canvas curtains. He would have climbed out again, but Ansel laid his hand atop his tawny curls.
“Rest, child, until I summon you.” The boy’s eyes went blank and he withdrew without another sound.
Maudrayne addressed the shaman in a low, furious voice. “And will you force Rusgann and me to rest again as well? Why not keep all of us sunk permanently in magical sleep? It would be so much more convenient for your purposes.”
“But not good for your health,” he said without heat. “Your well-being is very important to me, dear Maudie.”
“Drop your pretence of solicitude for our welfare, Ansel Pikan! That was never your true motive for hiding my son and me. For if that were so, you would have no good reason to
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prevent us from taking refuge with my brother Liscanor or with my dear uncle, the High Sealord Sernin.”
Ansel said, “If Conrig found you and Dyfrig, he would have you killed. And that is the truth.”
“But not the entire truth!” she raged. “My son overheard you and the sea-hag talking one day, and even though he was unable to understand, he remembered your words well enough to repeat them to me: ‘We must make certain he remains king. He’s the only one strong enough to hold them back. Without him, we have no hope of liberating the Source.’”
“I’m sorry you learned of this. The matter is complicated and—”