Authors: Julian May
Tags: #Kings and rulers, #Epic, #Fantasy fiction, #General, #Knights and knighthood, #Fantasy, #Fiction
Why
did the creatures kill Honigalus and his family? No one professes to have a clue. My Privy Council dismisses the notion of a human-nonhuman alliance as unthinkable. But is it?”
“We’ll have to find out the truth, Con.”
The king rose, stretched, and yawned. “And so much more! Is our Lord Treasurer a villain? Will the Lords of the Southern Shore oppose my naming Dyfrig third in the succession and hold out in favor of Feribor? Will the Sealords of Tarn remain loyal to the Sovereignty with Maude in their midst to remind them of how close they came to casting off vassalage?”
“The Princess Dowager has meekly recanted and signed the document,” Stergos reminded him.
“We can hope this will defuse the situation in Donor-vale. Arrangements are already made for Dyfrig to go to Beorbrook, and the earl marshal has pledged to welcome him.
And yet… I’m loath to admit it, Con, but I can’t help but wonder whether long years of separation from her son might eventually harden
Maude’s heart. She’s a woman of strong Tarnian passions, as we both know.”
“She’ll not break her word.”
“Can you be sure?” Stergos asked.
“Oh, yes,” the Sovereign said. “I’m very sure.” He took his brother’s arm, helped him up, and led him to the door. “One of the knights will see you safely to your chambers. Try to put all troublesome thoughts from your mind now and sleep well. That’s what I intend to do.”
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Lord Constable’s fast frigate
Cormorant
. Until then, he diverted himself in the High
Sealord’s palace doing what he did best: spying. Rendering himself unnoticeable in the usual way, with his talent, he prowled about eavesdropping and snooping in a desultory fashion, at first learning nothing much.
His men spent their time eating, drinking, hashing over the great adventure, or indulging in pure relaxation. Their perfervid admiration of him was intensely embarrassing.
Princess Maude was understandably morose and subdued in temper, since Dyfrig would also be departing in the ship of Lord Tinnis
Catclaw. The mother and son were constantly together, and she had engaged a local artist to paint a portrait of the boy and also of herself, so that each could have a lasting memento of the other.
Rusgann attended her mistress in glum silence and seemed to harbor formless apprehensions; she’d boldly asked Snudge whether he felt uneasy, too, and he’d been unable to deny it.
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The Lord Constable, whom Snudge had had little to do with before, proved jovial, friendly, and eager to please. He ordered a special refit of
Cormorant to accommodate the crowd of civilian passengers in comfort, and provisioned the ship with the best of food and drink for the voyage home.
Induna stayed on in the palace as an honored guest of the High Sealord, who had conferred upon her the largely symbolic title of Sealady of Barking Sands in recognition of her efforts. She intended to return to her home in the northland after the others had sailed away, having been thoroughly bemused by two messages sent her on the wind within a day of her abrupt arrival in Donorvale. The first, from
Shaman-Lord Ontel Pikan, informed her that Bozuk, her grandsire, was indeed dead, buried at sea with a length of anchor chain weighting his corpse. The second message, from the Northkeep banker Pakkor Kyle, requested instructions for the investment of her new inheritance—ten thousand gold marks. She had no notion what to tell him, but Sealord Sernin was giving her sound advice.
Snudge had almost taken Induna’s sacrifice for granted, not really under-standing what she’d done for him until one of the palace’s resident shamans explained it. Then he was abashed and a little angry, as the recipients of some great benevolence often are.
Why would she do such a thing for a stranger? What did she expect in return? But he found himself strangely unwilling to ask the questions of her, nor had he any wish to spy on her. After congratulating her on her marvelous legacy, Snudge avoided her company, although he saw her each day at dinner in Sernin’s great hall and made polite conversation as a courteous knight should. Yet his thoughts returned to her at odd moments, and this both puzzled and disturbed him.
Snudge’s fit of somber self-absorption came to an abrupt end when he found the three forged suicide notes.
He’d come again to the guest room of the Lord Constable, wondering why it was always kept locked, intending to examine his portfolio of official papers more thoroughly for clues to the man’s character. (Locks had never deterred Snudge’s investigations.) The forged notes, together with an undeniably genuine short letter of Maudrayne’s, were stuffed in Lord Tinnis’s briefcase any old way, as though he’d been interrupted while perusing them… or more likely, penning them. Each suicide note was the same, and each mimicked the handwriting of the princess with
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more accuracy.
My dearest Uncle Sernin: Without my beloved son, life is no longer worth living. The potion I have taken will lead me to the peace I can find in no other way. Forgive me for causing you sorrow. Tell Dyfrig I will always watch over him.
Snudge felt his heart turn over in his breast, then a tidal wave of fury and grief smote him with such force that he almost cried out aloud.
Conrig was responsible for this. What Snudge had balked at, Tinnis Cat-claw was all too willing to do. The High King, believing his intelligencer dead, had beyond doubt dispatched the Lord Constable to Tarn to apprehend Maudrayne and Dyfrig and slay them. Later, with the circumstances altered, the death sentence of the little boy was rescinded—but Maude’s was not.
Conrig was not ready to risk that she might someday withdraw her recanting.
With shaking hands, Snudge replaced the parchment sheets as he’d found them and slipped out of the room. His first thought was to track down Lord Tinnis on the Donorvale docks and slip a dagger between his ribs—but Conrig would only send another assassin. His second thought was to warn Maudrayne and Sealord Sernin that she was about to be poisoned—but doing so might provoke the very calamity the
Source had been trying to prevent. The princess could not be allowed to testify to the High King’s talent. Conrig Wincantor must keep his
Iron Crown.
Distraught to the point of incoherence, Snudge stumbled to his own small guest room and locked himself inside. Then he cried out on the wind for the Source.
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He was in the eerie place of icy imprisonment on other business, consulting with the One Denied the Sky about the fall of Moss, and the near certainty that Master Shaman Kalawnn would soon find in Rothbannon’s library the book containing the incantation that would activate the Known Potency.
Because Maudrayne must make her own choice in the matter.
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“I see no choice! There’s only death awaiting poor Maudie!”
The Source was calm.
You don’t foresee far enough, dear soul. She will still choose freely, and so will Deveron. As for Kalawnn, his discovery was inevitable. Rothbannon always possessed the means to activate the Potency. He was only afraid to do it
—
as his successors were because he knew not the purpose of the enigmatic stone
—
.
Ansel sighed. “So this, too, is part of the Last Conflict: an empowered Potency in the possession of the Salka.”
Yes.
“The monsters will go after the two Moon Crags, you know. They’ll hunt them down one way or another and manufacture new moonstone sigils.”
Perhaps. I can’t tell. The Potency can either activate such stones or abolish them
—
remember that! We must ask ourselves how the Lights will react to the presence of sigils that draw power from them, while vouchsafing no satisfaction of their hunger. The Likeminded and I
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are still mulling over the matter, and its possible effect upon the New Conflict
.
Ansel Pikan gave a tired little laugh, “Mull away! I must leave you to it and go to Thalassa Dru.
But be sure that I’ll be windwatching my dear princess all the while. And doing some mulling of my own—over my personal role in your great game.”
Farewell, dear soul. Visit me again when you can.
==========
“Sir Deveron! What are you doing here?”
“Do you like my new steed?” he inquired archly. “His name is Stormy, and he’s supposed to be a holy terror. But we’ll get along. I’ve a talent for dealing with horses.”
Induna glanced swiftly around the stableyard. None of the grooms were near. She spoke softly.
“Aren’t you leaving for Gala tomorrow with the others, sir knight?”
Snudge fastened a buckle, then began to lash on a bedroll wrapped in waterproofed leather.
“No. I intend to stay and seek my fortune in
Tarn… and I’m no longer a knight, although my royal master hasn’t heard the bad news yet. I’ve given up being the Royal Intelligencer of Conrig Wincantor. My heart tells me that I can never again serve him in good conscience, since he has ordered a shameful act to be committed. The king will probably be livid when he finds out I’m gone for good, and he may put out a death warrant on me. But I’m unscryable, and Tarn is a large and lonely place.”
Induna watched him work. “There is a long, somewhat perilous track I know, that leads to Northkeep and then to a tiny place called
Barking Sands.”
He froze, catching her gaze. “What are you saying?”
“Only that I admire and respect you, sir,” she said in a low voice, “and even more so now, after you’ve confided your crisis of conscience to me. I’d welcome your enduring friendship. I would also welcome you to my home”—she smiled slyly at him—“which, as you know, will soon be much more commodious than before. My mother is a superior healer shaman, and she’d welcome you, too. The lot of
Tarnian magickers is an interesting one, with many challenges. Do your talents include healing?”
“I don’t know. I’m self-taught. There may be things within me that I never suspected.”
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“Yes, as one matures, they sometimes manifest—not always as one might wish. Perhaps Mother and I together can work with you. To help you control and enhance your talent, if you should wish it.”
He cocked his head to one side and lifted one eyebrow. “And will you also show me how sands can bark, if we ride up there together?”
“Oh, yes!” Her face shone with eagerness.
“Mind you,” he added more soberly, “I intend to be away within the hour, before a certain Cathran lord notices I’m missing. But if you’re serious, I’ll secure a horse and tack for you while you fetch what you intend to bring.”
“Give me half an hour, sir.”
“You must now call me Deveron, for that is my name.”
“Very well—Deveron. I’m glad we are to be friends.” She turned and ran off lightly, her
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red-gold hair gleaming in the lowering sun.
He’d acted impulsively, perhaps foolishly. But the feeling of oppression that had earlier haunted him and the later pangs of anger, hatred, and sorrow were no longer so intense.
Induna! His previous experiences with women had been brief and casual and few. Perhaps this would be different.
The evening was still very warm. Feeling a sudden thirst, he strolled to the well that supplied both the stable and the laundry. As he bent over the stone rim to note its depth, he felt the two sigils slip out of his open shirt and dangle at the end of their chain.
The waters below gleamed dark and deep.
He took hold of the glowing things, slipped the chain over his head, and let the moonstones dangle in space. Perhaps it was time, now that he was ready to begin a new life…
Not yet.
The voice was regretful, sad, and utterly compelling.
He sighed, hung the chain around his neck again, and went off to find the stablemaster. He had quite forgotten to take a drink of water.
==========
“It’s blessedly cool out here, isn’t it?” Tinnis said to her. “And quiet as well, with no one about.
Would you like to take a short stroll to the docks and cast an eye over my ship? It would please me to show you the fine accommodation the carpenters have wrought for Prince Dyfrig.”
“I don’t fancy a tuppence tour given by groveling officers,” she said shortly.
He only laughed. “They’re all ashore, as are most of the rest of the crew. Come, a little air will lift your spirits.”