Authors: Julian May
His arm tightened on Induna's body as the need awakened again within him. She woke smiling, turned and drew his face close to kiss his lips. Not a word was spoken. All that they did was perfect and sweet and complete. When it was done they lay apart, hand in hand.
'I wish we could stay here forever,' she whispered. 'In this little house, among these friendly people, in a world without brutal kings and wars and monsters and black sorcery.' She turned to look at him and her hand tightened in his. 'But we can't stay. You have your mission and now that you've recovered your strength you'll have to carry it out. But what will become of me?'
'We'll do the work together, of course.'
'What - what if the Source forbids it?'
Deveron laughed and took her in his arms. 'Let him try. Let
anyone
try to separate us now.'
They lay in a quiet embrace as the grey dawnlight intensified. The room was chilly, so he used his talent to kindle a fire in the wood already laid on the hearth, then scried
beyond the cottage walls to see what kind of weather prevailed.
'There's fog this morning,' he observed. 'Dense as milk out in the morass, a little thinner here on the higher ground. Impossible to scry through. I wonder if we're in for an early autumn?'
She sighed. 'I suppose you ought to lift the spell of couverture. We should find out what's been happening in the outside world. But let's stay in bed until the fire warms the place up.'
'I can do that with my talent, too,' he pointed out.
She giggled. 'Use it to a better effect, my dearest, and I'll use mine as well.'
By the time they finished it was full light. They arose and dressed. While she collected bowls and cups and found tea to brew and eggs to boil and meal for griddle-cakes, he sat in a dim corner of the room and cancelled the cover-spell. Then he let the wind bring its messages to him.
The most urgent and astounding one came from a woman he had thought to be long dead. Ullanoth of Moss addressed him as Snudge, and seemed most annoyed that he had been unreachable for such a long time. Not even Cray and Thalassa, who had returned from beneath the Ice during the small hours of that morning, had been willing to breach the privacy of the newlyweds.
'Your Majesty! Is it really you? I thought you'd succumbed to the pain-debt of your Great Sigils many years ago. How do you know that private nickname of mine used by King Conrig?'
Obviously I am alive, Sir Snudge. And you need not style me as queen, for my younger brother Beynor has once again usurped the throne of Moss, thanks to your former master.
'Beynor is back?' Another amazing surprise.
Yes. The honored guest of the Sovereign in Boarsden Castle, where
the battle-leaders of the realm are gathered in a Council of War against the Salka. As to your peculiar alias, I was reminded of it by Ansel Pikan, whom I attended on his deathbed -
'God rest him . . . What happened to the poor old fellow?'
He died two nights ago of wounds suffered in service to the Source, the One Denied the Sky. I also serve the New Conflict now, after atoning for my many evil deeds, and I know that you do as well. I bespoke you as Snudge because it is - and is not - your true name. This fact gives you a measure of protection from the worst caprices of the Great Lights, since you introduced yourself to them using it. Ansel bade me give you a message, one that's rather puzzling, concerning your new mission to the Sovereign of Blenholme.
'What is it, my lady? I know that I am to assist High King Conrig to carry out his own role in the New Conflict -'
The Sovereign who requires your assistance is not Conrig.
'What?! But that's -'
I can only tell you what Ansel said. A deathbed revelation came to him. And perhaps not vouchsafed by the Source at all. I've already discussed the matter with Cray and Thalassa, who wonder whether the information may have come from those mysterious allies of the Source who are called the Likeminded Remnant. As I understand it, these are 'good' Lights who were defeated in the Old Conflict but not confined beneath the Ice as was the Source. You will have to ask the others about this. I'll take up no more of your time, for I know they are anxious to bespeak you.
'Lady Ullanoth - wait! How am I to serve a Sovereign other than Conrig? As far as I know, such a person does not exist.'
Oh, he does. In the future if not in the present, and you must safeguard his life at all costs. Farewell, Sir Snudge.
Baffled, he sent out a windcall to his great-great-grandmother. She responded at once, summoning him and Induna to the longhouse on the opposite side of the village, where the Green shamans had their workrooms and chambers for special ceremonies.
The situation is changing. Grandson, and not for the better. Come with your wife as soon as possible. I'll see that you're fed.
When the windthread snapped Deveron went to the hearth where Induna was at work. 'Hold off making our breakfast, sweetheart. We've been invited to eat with Eldmama Cray and Thalassa Dru. They're back from consulting the Source and have important tidings.' He lifted his shoulders in an apologetic gesture. 'I suspect our honeymoon is over.'
She swung the kettle away from the fire and kissed him. 'Never mind. So long as we can stay together, I'll be content.'
* * *
They had swooped down on the wagon-train not long after dawn, when it was barely five leagues out from Castlemont, a lightly armed company of Cathran warriors wearing the badge of a wildcat's paw. Their commander, a stout-bodied knight with a drinker's red nose and a cruel, thick-lipped mouth, wasted no time ordering her to dismount and doff her cloak and hat.
'She's the one!' he proclaimed in triumph, after studying a sheet of parchment that held a sketch. 'Her ugly face and the beanpole height of her are unmistakable .. . Rusgann Moorcock, you are under arrest for grand theft. Our Lord Constable, Tinnis Catclaw, commands that you be conveyed to Boarsden Castle and confined, awaiting his judgment.'
'You're mistaken!' she shrilled. 'I'm an honest herb-wife of Broadmead near Timberton, and my name is -'
Casually, the knight leaned from the saddle and smacked her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. 'Shut your gob, you smelly old besom, and climb back onto your mule. Larus! Trozo! Tie her wrists together and lash her feet to the stirrups.'
Two men-at-arms hastened to obey. The frightened drivers in the supply train sat mute on their wagons, helpless to save her. When Rusgann moaned at the tightness of her bonds,
the brave carter who'd defended her from the border guard began to open his mouth. She eyed him and shook her head. When she was securely tied, the men remounted. One of them took the mule on a lead, and the entire troop of warriors wheeled about and headed for Boarsden.
* * *
Deveron and Induna put on wool cloaks against the morning dampness and made their way to the shamans' longhouse, greeted by smiling Green Folk going about their morning chores. A light drizzle began to fall, thinning the mist. Through a gap in the trees the partially ruined bulk of Castle Morass could be seen a scant half-league distant. Lighted windows shone in one of its broken towers.
'Do you suppose we'll get to meet the old robber-baron who owns the place before we go about our business?' Induna asked her husband. 'The village people only shook their heads when I asked about Ising Bedotha earlier. They said he's dotty as a mistle thrush. But I confess I'd love to know why he supports Casya Pretender and allows the Green Men sanctuary in his lands. Most Didionites fear the little people.'
'It's probably simple hatred of Somarus. The king was once an outlaw himself, you know, preying on Wold Road travelers with his gang of brigands until he took the throne and reformed. Since then, he's crushed most of the free-spirited barons of the backcountry without mercy - even those like Ising, who'd been his friends in the bad old days. I was told by Cray that royal troops battered Castle Morass for weeks, but the baron dug in his heels until Somarus finally called off the fight in disgust. The castle is really too remote from trade routes to be strategically important. Laying siege to it turned out to be prohibitively expensive.'
They walked together up the path leading to the long-house, which was a low building thatched with a deep layer
of swamp grass. It had four chimneys and shuttered windows. The sheltered entry-way was adorned with the skulls of many small wild animals, strung into macabre garlands and hung from pegs. The door opened before they could knock. The Mossland sorceress Thalassa Dru emerged and immediately folded them both in her enormous soft embrace. She smelled of wild roses.
‘Induna! Deveron! I was so sorry to miss your wedding. You must tell me all about it.'
'Perhaps later, Conjure-Princess,' Deveron said. 'We ask that you first recount your visit with the Source, and let us know what special duties he has planned for us.'
Cray, who had been almost hidden behind the voluminous robes of the larger woman, popped out smiling. 'Welcome, children! Come inside and you can eat as we talk. Everything's ready.'
The house had a central corridor illuminated by oil lamps, with many chambers opening on either side. In most of them nonhuman little shaman-crafters were at work on mysterious projects. They looked up and smiled briefly at the sight of the human visitors. Cray led the way to a larger room at the far end of the building, a kind of refectory and meeting-hall with several tables, chairs and benches, and a large fireplace holding a brisk blaze.
She seated Deveron and Induna at a low table near the hearth where two place settings waited, opened the warming oven, and removed a crock of oat porridge, two spit-roasted quail, and a dish of hot apple-bilberry compote. An adjacent pantry yielded honey, clotted cream, butter, and half a loaf of barley bread. She set out the food and poured four cups of mint tea, after which she and Thalassa Dru joined the newly weds at the table.
'Won't you eat with us?' Induna protested.
'We broke our fast hours ago,' Cray said, 'when we
emerged from the trance state after dwelling subtly beneath the Ice visiting the Source. We let you two sleep in as long as we could.'
'One doesn't experience hunger or thirst while traveling entranced,' Thalassa explained. 'But when the soul and mortal body re-unite, one is ravenous!' She stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea and settled into a sturdy chair that had obviously been provided especially for her. 'Hmm. Perhaps I'll have just a bit of bread and butter!'
'Before you summoned us this morning,' Deveron said, 'I was bespoken by Lady Ullanoth. She said she had already told you of the strange statement made by Ansel Pikan as he lay dying - that our mission in the New Conflict is not to assist Conrig Ironcrown, but rather another Sovereign of Blenholme. Can you clarify this?'
'In good time,' Thalassa Dru replied. 'But first, tell me what you already know about the
Old
Conflict.'
'Very little,' Deveron admitted, while helping himself to the roast quail. He was also extremely hungry. 'At various times, the Source and Ansel spoke of a great battle between good and evil Lights that took place long ago and now is about to be resumed.'
Induna put cream on her porridge and mixed in some of the luscious stewed fruit. 'My mother Maris told me that the good Lights were defeated during the time that Emperor Bazekoy's invasion took place. Their leader was imprisoned beneath the Barren Lands icecap. Mother said that certain assistants - including herself - have worked throughout the centuries to liberate the leader, who calls himself the Source of the Conflict, and help prevent the Beaconfolk from extending their depraved dominion to humanity. The work of the helpers has mostly involved collecting inactive moonstone sigils that were left scattered about the island by the Salka who fled Bazekoy's host.'
Cray nodded. 'We Green Folk also serve as helpers. Each time one of those recovered sigils was annihilated by the One Denied the Sky, he regained some of his lost strength. But let Thalassa tell the tale in an orderly fashion.'
It began in distant prehistoric times, when the Great Lights were a group undivided and incorrupt, only somewhat bored with their tranquil aetherial existence in the Sky Realm above the northern part of the world.
A certain Light conceived a great game. Its rules are unimportant - and indeed are rather incomprehensible to corporeal beings, except insofar as the game-pieces are concerned. For the inventor of the game used self-aware nonhuman creatures living on High Blenholme Island as unwitting pawns. First the Salka, and later the Small Lights, Green Men, and Morass Worms were drawn into the contest which was, in its early stages, almost entirely harmless to the game-pieces.
Each Great Light playing the game was alloted a number of pawns, who were subtly encouraged to choose one moonstone sigil from a collection of many different kinds. The sigils were supernatural conduits that channeled Beaconfolk sorcery from the Sky Realm to that of the Ground. Some of the stones vouchsafed fairly inconsequential benefits to the user-pawn, while others were virtually miracle-working. The pawn was obliged to pay a price of physical discomfort in exchange for each magical deed performed with its sigil: the greater the magic, the more intense the discomfort.
The Light whose pawns were brave enough - or foolish enough - to rack up the greatest debt during a measured time period was declared the winner of that contest.
As time passed, the game changed character. While the spunkies, the Green Folk, and the Morass Worms eventually became wary of the insidious appeal of Beaconfolk sorcery
and declined to participate any longer, the slower-thinking Salka grew more enthusiastic. Many were so eager to enjoy the magical rewards of the game that they manufactured their own sigils and clamored to become pawns.
Encouraged, the more unscrupulous players among the Lights created ever more powerful moonstones that demanded a genuinely painful - or even a deadly - price. In a terrible paradox, certain Lights began to revel in the torture that the Salka inflicted upon themselves. They learned to feed on the foolish amphibians' pain and became addicted to it. The original purpose of the game became perverted into a contest of sadistic gratification.