Authors: Julian May
Dawn backlit the range and turned its glaciers to a pale rosy hue by the time she finished her hot drink and went to the unshuttered kitchen window. No birds sang around the house. They had already sensed the approach of winter at this high altitude and flown away to the warmth of the Continent. The back garden of her aunt's retreat had been hit by a black frost a week or so earlier, and the recent sleet storm had turned it to a melancholy sight; only the toughest plants remained unblighted. Soon enough heavy snow would fall in the highlands of Tarn, and the house on the Upper Havoc River with its thick walls and rock-weighted roof would be cut off from normal human contact until spring.
But not from the uncanny byways traveled by Ullanoth's paternal aunt, Thalassa Dru . . .
The sorceress who was one of the principal agents of the One Denied the Sky had been granted unique gifts by him. Perhaps the most remarkable was the ability to move through what Thalassa called 'subtle corridors' - invisible passages
criss-crossing the Sky and Ground worlds that enabled instantaneous transport as did Gateway sigils, but without the concommitant pain-price owed to the Great Lights. Wix had been carried to Thalassa's lodge in this way shortly before the Salka overran Fenguard Castle in Moss. Ullanoth herself had come there through the corridors somewhat later, after a sojourn in an eerie limbo that she could recall only dimly.
At the time when she lay dying from the debt incurred through excessive use of her Great Stones, she renounced the Lights and agreed to serve the Source in the New Conflict. Her soul's essence had been reduced to a tiny emerald sphere to save it from the Pain-Eaters who would have devoured it. Neither alive nor dead, she was imprisoned within the Ice of the Source's own otherworldly prison. Other souls were there with her - a few of them contrite power-seekers like herself, but most of them persons who had been rescued from the thrall of the Lights or from impending death while serving the One Denied the Sky. One of those prisoners, an aged Tarnian sea-hag named Dobnelu, had accompanied Ullanoth back to the Ground Realm at the Source's command, to act as her tutor in repentance. In the house of Thalassa Dru, the souls of the two women were reunited with their bodies, whereupon Ullanoth's years of true atonement began.
In time, Dobnelu passed on to eternal peace; but before she died the sea-hag whispered a secret to her pupil.
I know this strange new life of yours has been hard. You are discouraged, wondering if there is any purpose to your suffering and hard work. But persevere! If you do, your appointed task in the New Conflict will bring about the war's final resolution - through the death of the Potency.
Ullanoth had no idea at all what Dobnelu meant. Neither did Thalassa Dru.
But the old woman's words had been intended to comfort her. And so Ullanoth sha Linndal did persevere, for year after
year after year, with loyal old Wix lending what human solace he could. And now it seemed that the long battle between good and evil Sky beings was about to reach its climax, and her own role in the drama would be revealed.
The rising sun crested the mountains and suddenly blinded her. She covered her eyes with her hands and sent out the windhail to the man called Snudge.
But there was no answer.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Zolanfel Kobee, the new Grand Shaman of Tarn, sat stiff as a plank on one of Stergos Wincantor's solarium chairs in Boarsden Castle. His eyes were glazed and his lips pressed tightly together as his mind soared on the wind, seeking important information from one confrere after another in far-distant parts of his native land.
He was a compact man with long silver hair and a flowing beard, who usually wore a rather sad smile, as though he'd seen a surfeit of worldly wickedness and hurt during his long years as a healer and magical adept in the High Sealord's court. This afternoon, anticipating the evening's betrothal festivities, he had donned his finest clothes: a tunic and red-gartered trews of burnished walnut leather, topped by a long vest of sealskin trimmed with golden embroidery and sea-ivory beads. Tucked into his belt was an ivory shaman's baton inlaid with precious metals, and over one shoulder he wore a baldric having pouches that contained charms and philtres and other small items used in thaumaturgical practice. On his chest hung his badge of office, a pectoral of gold encrusted with huge Tarnian opals. Ansel Pikan had left it in the care of Sernin Donorvale before undertaking his fatal mission to
the Barren Lands. The High Sealord had invested the new Grand Shaman with the pectoral just that morning, after news of Ansel's death was bespoken to Boarsden by an anonymous female apprentice of the sorceress Thalassa Dru.
The Royal Alchymist of Cathra played an anxious game of solitaire while his Tarnian colleague remained entranced, seated opposite him at a round table. Stergos was losing -but it never occurred to him to cheat.
There came an urgent scratching at the door.
Stergos rose up quickly, poked a hole in the spell of couverture he'd erected to shield the room from spies, and used windsight to identify his secretary, the alchymist Vra-Dombol. He whispered the words that would uncover the door completely and cracked it open. 'What is it, Domby? I really cannot be disturbed.'
'Nor would I have done so without good reason, my lord,' the other Brother of Zeth murmured. 'But it seems that the three sons of the Sovereign have just ridden into Boarsden . . . and oddly enough, they beg immediate audience with you!'
Stergos frowned. He was a man of pleasantly youthful appearance in spite of his one-and-fifty years, dressed for the upcoming occasion in fine crimson vestments and with a little red-and-gold cap on his curling halo of fair hair. 'Did they say why they wanted to consult me?'
'Nay, my lord, save for swearing that the matter was most urgent.'
'Very well. Tell them I will see them as soon as possible, if they will be so good as to wait.'
'Yes, my lord.' Vra-Dombol withdrew and Stergos re-secured the door, wondering what business the royal youths might have with him when they should be occupied fully with other matters. The eldest boy, Vra-Bramlow, whom he knew best, was a promising novice in Zeth's Mystical Order, who might one day appropriately assume Stergos's own
office. But the Royal Alchymist was not at all close to the Prince Heritor and his twin brother. Throughout most of their lives, Stergos had kept his distance from them because their very existence was a reproach to his scrupulous conscience.
On a portentous day in the past, Stergos Wincantor had stood anxiously at the side of the Sovereign while the sorceress Ullanoth tested Queen Risalla's unborn babe for both gender and talent. Both royal brothers already knew that the twin princes Orrion and Corodon carried the same minute portion of uncanny ability as did their father. Like Conrig, they would be barred from the throne if their secret was uncovered.
As it happened, the fetus carried by Risalla was indeed free of magical taint - but being female, it was ineligible for the Cathran crown. Since the queen could have no more children after giving birth to Princess Wylgana, the High King believed that he had no choice but to conceal the princes' disqualifying talent, as he had his own.
Stergos was a reluctant accomplice in the great deceit, but only insofar as he would never be required to perjure himself. Adroit evasions and legal technicalities had thus far enabled the alchymist to avoid confronting the perilous issue head-on. Nevertheless, he feared that he'd not be able to walk the tightrope forever. One day he would be forced to choose between his own sacred honor as a Doctor Arcanorum and the legitimacy of the Wincantor succession.
'Gossy . . . water, if you please.'
A croaking plea recalled Stergos to the presence of the Grand Shaman of Tarn. He caught up a silver ewer and a beaker and hurried to the other man's side. With soothing words, he helped Zolanfel to moisten his dry mouth. Windspeaking long distances sorely taxed both body and mind.
'Can you hold the cup, Zol? Good! I'll fetch some wine and biscuits. They'll help revive you.'
When the shaman was more composed, Stergos asked, 'How did your people respond?'
'Things in Tarn go as well as can be expected.' Hazel eyes peered almost shyly from beneath Zolanfel's tangled grey brows. 'Sealord Tammig Bandyshanks of Ice Haven, on Havoc Bay where most of the Joint Fleet has stayed during the past moon awaiting orders, has disguised two racing sloops as fishing smacks and put aboard each a pair of topnotch scriers. These shamans can windsearch at least a short ways underwater, which most magickers of Cathra and Didion cannot. At this minute the sloops are hellbent for the mouth of the Beacon River on fair winds. They should arrive some time late tonight. I've warned their captains to be cautious and not to get too near the coast. The monsters usually swim only a league or two offshore because in the open northern sea, they may become the prey of fierce grampuses or unicorns, or even krakens.'
'And these shaman-observers will farspeak you their tidings?'
'No, they must relay through Ice Haven using a special code for safety's sake. We'll receive the news via a specially trained windvoice who is adroit at tight focus. The Salka might otherwise trace the thread of windspeech to Boarsden, realize they were being spied upon, and attack the sloops.'
'An excellent precaution.'
'Gossy, I've done one other thing on my own initiative that the Sovereign didn't command. Some distance north and west of Ice Haven lies Fort Ramis, the fief of the valiant Sealady Tallu and her husband Ontel, a shaman who was cousin to the late Ansel Pikan. Ontel is a noted weather-wizard and he's no slouch as an undersea-scrier, either. I've asked him to keep a sharp watch up in his part of the world . . . just in case the Salka
aren't
paddling back home to Moss as we've so blithely assumed.'
Stergos nodded in approval. 'Very prudent of you, Zol. Did you feel a presentiment of Salka guile?'
'Not really.' The shaman rubbed his temples, fending off post-oversight headache. 'But the great slippery fangers aren't really as stupid as we humans would like to believe. There are still nearly two moons of fair weather for them to wreak mischief elsewhere, now that their Beacon Valley thrust has turned to a balls-up.'
'Do you think they'd dare go to the west coast? Perhaps swim up the Firth of Gayle and attack Donorvale itself?'
'There are other possible objectives besides the Tarnian capital that are less well defended. I just think we should remain alert for any contingency. Advise your royal brother that Sealady Tallu is one of our most astute mariners. She has to be, since she's responsible for law and order along the entire Desolation Coast. If the Salka try to slip past her, she won't do anything so stupid as engaging them in combat. She'll find a way to follow circumspectly, guided by the longsight of her husband Ontel.'
'I'll inform Conrig. Now go and rest.'
The shaman rose and stretched. 'Yes. I could use a few quiet hours before the feast.'
Which is more than I shall probably have, Stergos thought, for my every instinct tells me that those royal pups, my nephews, are in some sort of trouble!
He ushered the Tarnian to the door, lifted the shielding spell, then bespoke Vra-Dombol and told him to bring in King Conrig's sons.
* * *
Beynor had contrived to follow not far behind the Cathran princes' entourage as it traveled from Castlemont to the fork in the highroad leading to Boarsden Castle. There he separated from the unusually somber party of young men and turned north to ride toward the town, where he intended to seek accommodation for the night.
His suspicion that Prince Corodon, like his twin Orrion,
possessed secret talent had been soundly confirmed, putting him in a mood of almost giddy elation. It was all coming right at last! When that silly young whelp Coro became Prince Heritor, he'd be easy prey, a fish in a barrel readily caught, cooked, and served up for Beynor's delectation.
And through the son, Beynor would ensnare the father . . .
The day had been a fine one, with the stormclouds that had lingered earlier blown away by a brisk southwest wind. As Beynor rode toward Boarsden Town in the mellow afternoon sunlight, he passed entire makeshift villages of gaily-colored knightly pavilions and the leathern or grey canvas tents of soldiers and attendants, set up in anticipation of the great defensive battle in the Green Morass that would now be indefinitely postponed.
The encampments had become squalid during fruitless weeks of waiting, and his windsight discerned idle and restless warriors and their leaders hanging about in desultory groups, gaming or drinking or quarreling or loafing near the cook-tents in hopes of cadging food. Overseen at close range, the once-proud banners and pennons displayed among the shelters were faded and tattered by summer thunderstorms and hot sun, and the conical stacks of pikes and lances were filmed with rust. Dispirited war-horses stood droop-headed in malodorous paddocks, tended by bored grooms.
Beynor knew that similar military camps occupied the countryside on both sides of the River Malle. Each one, whether the troops there were Cathran, Didionite, or Tarnian, had at its entrance a huge flag on a tall staff: the scarlet banner of the Sovereignty of High Blenholme with its four golden crowns.
Four
crowns.
So the whoreson Conrig Wincantor still claims the fealty of Moss! the sorcerer thought, with a brief pang of fury. Little did he know that the true Conjure-King rode but a few
leagues distant from him, carrying the Sovereignty's downfall in a fine new belt-wallet. . .
Beynor entered Boarsden Town at its South Gate and began inquiring for rooms at superior inns - only to be met with polite regret, indifferent shrugs, and outright derision. Even the more modest places were full. Every bed in every hostelry was taken by the hangers-on who catered to or battened upon a great army: purveyors of food, drink, fodder, clothing, and hardware; itinerant entertainers and gamblers; pedlars of quack nostrums and sundries; and every manner of whore from elegant perfumed courtesans who might grace the bed of a lord to sad and aging drabs who had knocked out their front teeth in hopes of selling low service to the undiscriminating.