“Very well,” Conrig said, rising from the table in the officers’ mess, where he had been conferring with Skellhaven and Baron Ingo Holmrangel, who served as First Mate. “I’ll ask my brother to attempt to reach the princess. But she warned me she might be too weak for distant windvoicing after conjuring yesterday’s big northerly blows on either side of the island.”
Holmrangel shook his head slowly, frowning. “A wierd thing, that, and nothing any seaman familiar with Cala Bay wants to get on the wrong side of, this time of year. Still, the air’s nowhere near the frost-point yet, and the gales have petered out, so I guess we needn’t worry.”
The baron was a rough-featured, bearish man with a distinct family resemblance to his older cousin. He had proved himself to be impressively efficient at organizing the makeshift crew of Shearwater, and had personally beheaded a Stippenese bosun caught attempting to sever the clipper’s fore-topmast stay early on in the voyage. After the execution of the saboteur, the other Continental crewmen pressed into service had cooperated meekly with their Cathran captors.
Conrig found Stergos on the poop deck, staring morosely at the passing scene of Bluefish Bay. The Doctor Arcanorum had declined to join the prince and the Heart Companions at breakfast earlier, saying that he preferred to take some fresh air and pray, now that the violent wind had finally fallen off. The precipitous voyage down Blenholme’s eastern coast under straining sails had badly shaken the nerves of the sensitive alchymist, as had his almost continuous duty of maintaining communication with the windvoices at Cala Palace and those of Admiral Woodvale.
“It’s no use, my trying to bespeak Princess Ullanoth,” Stergos said, after Conrig had made his request. “I attempted to reach her a short time ago with no success. She may still be recuperating abed—as poor young Deveron is—and with us so far away from Holt Mallburn now, my voice is not strong enough to penetrate her slumber.”
“Snudge!” Conrig brightened. “He’s rested long enough. Let’s wake him and have him try for Ullanoth. She made it plain enough that she knows of his talent.” He took Stergos by the arm and drew him toward the companionway. “I wish we could have kept his ability secret from her, but I feared she’d learn of it if she ever got close to him.”
“Do you think she also suspects Deveron of using Iscannon’s sigil?” the doctor whispered, following Conrig down the ladder to the middle deck, where the squires had been given sleeping space among the merchant ship’s single line of cannons.
“Who can say? I only wish I knew whether Snudge told the truth when he claimed the Concealer was lost at Mallmouth Bridge.” His face twisted. “Damn him if he still has the thing, but quails from using it out of cowardice!”
“Cowardice? How can you say such a thing?” Stergos hissed, seizing his brother by the upper arms as they gained the middle deck. “He saw his friends murdered before his eyes, and their killer burnt to cinders by the moonstone’s sorcery. He has told me of this to ease his mind, weeping like the devastated child he is. But no coward opened the bridge-gate to your army.”
“Snudge swore fealty to me and dare not abjure his duty,” said the prince, his face adamant. “If you know that he still has the Concealer stone in his possession, you must tell me.”
“I don’t know it.” Stergos met his brother’s hard gaze without flinching, even though there was desolation in his own eyes. “Neither will I question him about it, lest he be tempted to lie to me.”
“So! But you care not that the boy lies to me?”
“Con, I love you and will give my life for you. But you can’t demand that I compromise the conscience of another person. No liege lord on earth can ask such a thing. I know that Deveron has begged you to trust him—”
“As has Ullanoth,” the prince muttered. “Trust! It’s a luxury few princes can afford.”
“But the boy is worthy of it. If he does still have the stone, perhaps one day he’ll feel strong enough to use it again in your service. Until then, I beseech you not to press him. It will do no good.”
“Ah, Gossy!” Conrig made a gesture that mingled exasperation and surrender. “You and Snudge are alike in so many ways. I swear I’ll ask no more of either of you than you will freely give. Forgive this black humor of mine. It’s the war… my fears for the Sovereignty and for Cathra itself… the quirk of fortune that allowed Honigalus and his armada to escape Mallburn Town before we could stop them… the stupidity of our own admirals. And here I am, with all my hopes now dependent upon the powers of a fickle sorceress—”
“And perhaps also upon our poor dying father,” Stergos added. “But he believes the oracle that said all would come right in the end. What can we do but try to believe it, too?”
They were gentle waking the boy, who had dark circles beneath his eyes and was so sluggish that he could barely emerge from the blankets of his hammock. He had slept for more than twelve hours and eaten nothing since Shearwater had quit Mallburn harbor, but if he suffered nightmares he said nothing of it to Conrig or Stergos.
“You need warm food and drink more than anything,” the alchymist decided, after he and his royal brother had helped Snudge into his clothes. They draped his arms over their shoulders, hauled him to the petty officers’ mess next to the galley, and sat on either side of him at the splintery table. A fat Stippenese cook dished up fried ham and warmed-over wholewheat porridge laced with dried apricots to Snudge, and served all three Cathrans heated wine from the private stock of the ship’s dead captain.
“Now, before you drink down too much of that awful vinegar-blink and blur whatever talent remains to you,” the prince said, once the cook had retreated, “try to bespeak the Conjure-Princess in Holt Mallburn. Ask her if she can maintain a gentle wind in the channel north of Terek Island in the Vigilants, so our ship can shortcut through it to Cala Bay. Ullanoth may be asleep, recovering from her magical labors.”
Snudge nodded and hunched forward with his head in his hands. The brothers sipped the wine, which was actually an outstanding vintage.
After a while Snudge sighed and lifted his face. He was smiling wanly. “I did have to wake her, and she wasn’t pleased. But she assures me that whatever winds prevail here now will continue for at least half a day more. Later, the weather may change due to natural causes. There is nothing she can do to influence it through magic at this time—not, she says, without risking harm to herself.”
Stergos rose. “I’ll inform Skellhaven.” He hurried away.
“The Conjure-Princess wasn’t surprised to have me voice her,” Snudge said. “She also told me that King Beynor has fallen afoul of the Beaconfolk, who were so angry with him that they took Rothbannon’s sigils away. The king has fled to the Dawntide Isles to live with the Salka. Ullanoth assures you that her brother will no longer assist Honigalus through his sorcery.”
“Futter me!” the prince exclaimed. “There’s good news for a change. Maybe our navy has a chance against Didion and the Continentals after all… Did the princess tell you whether she plans to join us soon?”
“No, Your Grace. And I didn’t think to ask her. All she said was that she needed to rest. She commanded me not to bother her again before evening.”
Conrig sat back with a sigh of disappointment. “Ah, well. Drink up, lad. And get that food inside you. When you’re stronger, I’d like you to scry what the enemy armada may be up to.”
“I’ll do my best, Your Grace.”
Conrig sat silent until the boy had finished his meal, apparently lost in thought. Finally he said, “Are you truly feeling better? I realize that the affray at Mallmouth Bridge was a terrible thing. Terrible! You were like one sleepwalking for much of the time after.”
Snudge sipped wine, making no reply.
The prince rose. “Perhaps you’d like to get a little more sleep in my cabin. It’s a tiny place, but God knows it’s warmer and drier than that cramped coop on the gundeck.”
“It’s best that I sleep with the other armigers. But perhaps a short stay in a mor
e private spot would be best if I must attempt scrying.”
Conrig said, “I’m afraid you must. Stergos can bespeak our own war-fleet and even contact the Tarnian windvoice traveling with the mercenaries. But I must depend on you to give us oversight of the foe, even though the work drains your strength.” He hesitated. “Is it very hard on you, Snudge?”
“I can bear it, Your Grace, for duty’s sake.”
Shearwater threaded her cautious way through the rocky channel, aided by a spring tide, and finally gained the open waters of Cala Bay. Meanwhile, with Snudge overwatching and giving periodic reports to Conrig and Stergos, the advancing armada of Honigalus made better time as the wind veered to the east and blew more steadily. By sundown, the sky was heavily overcast and a cold drizzle brought misery to seamen forced to climb the rigging of the tall ships to shorten sail. Honigalus and Peel plainly intended pressing on through the night, but the individual ships of the armada now gave each other wide sea-room and proceeded with great caution.
“They’ll hit the Lord Admiral’s force in the morning, after they pull together again into battle formation,” Skellhaven predicted. “But we still have the advantage, Your Grace. We’re bound to reach Woodvale first. Too bad about the Harriers, though.”
The Tarnian frigates pressed on doggedly toward Intrepid Point, but none of their skippers would predict when they might reach Blenholme Roads and join the Lord Admiral’s fleet.
Snudge and Skellhaven departed the captain’s cabin to their separate duties, leaving Conrig and his brother alone, brooding over a chart by lamplight. The night was full of the distinctive sounds made by a great ship under sail: the creak of timbers, the squealing of spars and booms, the slap and hum of rigging, and the continuing rush of water sliding past the hull.
“Brother,” the prince said after a time, “bespeak our father. We may as well find out whether the king’s brave attempt to educate the Lord Admiral and his captains in the niceties of small-craft warfare has failed or succeeded.”
“And we must learn how he fares bodily as well,” the alchymist said in quiet reproof, “although the ship’s doctor professed to be amazed at his unexpected vitality.”
The chief windvoice aboard Woodvale’s flagship Princess Milyna was a cheerful young alchymist named Vra-Bolan.
Ho, Gossy! So it’s you again, is it? There’s really no news. We’re riding in mid-bay, waiting and praying. I can hear the men below singing loud songs. The Lord Admiral ordered an extra ration of grog to cheer them up.
“Bolan, the Prince Heritor would talk to King Olmigon, if His Grace hasn’t retired for the night.”
He’s actually in remarkable fettle. He came aboard this morning with no crown or other symbol of royal authority, and an hour or so ago the fo’c‘sle gang decided something had to be done about that before tomorrow’s battle. So they crowned the old man with the iron band from a tarnblaze cask!
Stergos passed on this bit of intelligence to Conrig, who burst out laughing.
It took Vra-Bolan only a few minutes to reach the cabin where the king lay, and then father and son conversed haltingly on the wind. Conrig soon learned that Olmigon’s scheme for the small-boat flotilla had finally been accepted by the admiral and his commanders, although they still nursed serious doubts. The outlook now seemed so grim that almost anything was worth a try—even sending sloops and cutters to attack men o‘ war.
I had to demonstrate the damned maneuvers over and over again, the king complained, first to Woodvale, then to the fleet captains, and finally to the shallop skippers themselves, maneuvering squadrons of dried beans around tiny warship models on a tablecloth. The little fellows know what they have to do, though, and they intend to do it -well… You realize, of course, that most of them will die.
“Yes, sire,” said the prince.
Take care of their people.
“Of course.”
Is there any hope of magical assistance from Ullanoth?
“I fear not. She gave us gales on either side of the island when we needed them and calmed the winds that favored our foe. It exhausted her. We bespoke her not long ago. What strength she can summon she intends to use tomorrow to Send herself to Fenguard and claim the crown of Moss. That’s her highest priority. I can hardly fault her.”
No… Con?
“Yes, sire?”
You should know that if my insane deathbed ploy does help launch the Sovereignty, much is owed to your wife Maudrayne and to the shaman Ansel, who enabled me to reach Woodvale. Show them your gratitude also.
“I will. And I intend to acknowledge the emperor’s role as well. The entire island will hear of his oracle and marvel at it. Perhaps I’ll put Bazekoy’s face on the coinage of the Sovereignty.”
He’d probably think that a great joke…
“How do you feel, Father?”
Tired. Content. There’s not much pain. Did I tell you that I dreamed of Bazekoy only a day ago? That was how I knew my time had come, that I must leave my deathbed and take action. But the emperor also spoke strange words to me that pertained somehow to you. He said, “They’re coming: cold iron and cold iron clashing. Warn your son to take refuge then, forsaking victory, for these two are the foe no man can defeat‘’… I couldn’t fathom what he meant.
“I don’t understand it either, sire. Was he saying that Cathra cannot win the upcoming battle? If so, that contradicts his response to your one Question. It puts paid to all our hopes.”
No. I think it must mean something else entirely. If only I could grasp the damned slippery thought and force it to yield up its gist!
“Take heart. Perhaps this dream of yours was just a dream, and no arcane portent at all. Put it from your mind and rest. Tomorrow, when I see you again, we can speak more of this if you wish.”
The king bade both of his sons good night, but they still sat at the chart table, reluctant to go to their cabins. With the index fingers of either hand, Conrig idly traced the rugged coastline of High Blenholme—from Tarn in the far northwest, from Moss in the northeast. The two fingers came together in Cala Bay.
He gasped as the realization came to him. “Oh, God, Gossy! Could that be it? The Hammer and Anvil?”
The brothers regarded each other for a moment in a dread surmise. Then the alchymist said, “Since the Wolf’s Breath, our winters have been mild, without great storms in the south. But the volcanos are calm now. And Ullanoth’s twin gales… might they act as inadvertent precursors? If our father’s dream was indeed warning that Hammer and Anvil storms are sweeping down from the Barren Lands—”
“But when will they clash?” The prince’s eyes glittered as he moved one finger up the chart, northward between the promontories of Blackhorse and Eagle-roost, into the comparative safety of Blenholme Roads. “When?”
Stergos said, “We know a blizzard rages in Moss, and Prince Somarus and his army are trapped by heavy snow in the northern interior. Yet it could be days before the storms reach Cala Bay-—if they come at all. You said it yourself, Con: Perhaps Father’s dream was only a dream, and nothing more.”
The Prince Heritor’s body relaxed. His hands fell into his lap and he sighed. “In any case, we can’t let such a thing influence our strategy. Tomorrow we fight Didion. And who knows? By the time we meet the King’s Grace, he may have had another dream that will explain it all to us.“
But there would be no meeting and no explanation.
Much later, when Conrig was finally preparing to go to bed, Stergos entered his tiny sleeping cabin without knocking. The alchymist’s robes were awry and his face streamed with tears. He seemed unable to speak and only stood helpless until the prince took his shoulders and shook him.
“Gossy, what is it? What’s happened?”
“Vra-Bolan just bespoke me the news. Our father is dead, peacefully in his sleep. You are the King of Cathra.” As his younger brother stood frozen, Stergos knelt and kissed his hand. “I—I’ve not yet told the others.”
Conrig pulled the alchym
ist to his feet. “Nor will we tell them. Not until we reach the Lord Admiral’s flagship and see Father’s body with our own eyes. Only then will I be willing to don the iron-hoop crown he wore and undertake the duties of a king.”
“Oh, Con. He never was able to sing his Deathsong!”
“He sings it somewhere. Don’t worry.” He drew the weeping alchymist to the cabin door and thrust him into the corridor. “Leave me alone now, Gossy. Pray for our father’s spirit, but pray especially hard for me.”
When Conrig was alone again he took a bottle of malt liquor from his trussing coffer, filled a beaker to the brim, and downed it, hoping to silence the gush of speculation that rose like a black tide in his brain. But the remedy was futile and so he drank more, cursing beneath his breath, and finally fell insensible into the cabin’s mean, narrow bed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Viscount skellhaven brought Shearwater alongside Princess Milyna as another scarlet dawn broke over Cala Bay. The waters were choppy, and bursts of chill rain drenched Conrig and Stergos as they transferred to the Cathran flagship. The Lord Admiral and his officers had prepared a solemn reception, but the new king brushed aside all ceremony and said that he and the Royal Alchymist would view the remains of their father at once, escorted only by Woodvale.
Olmigon was laid out in the admiral’s sleeping-cabin. They had dressed him in plain robes, placed two candles beside his head, and assigned four knight-lieutenants as a guard of honor. The improvised crown, a slightly rusted circlet, lay on his breast.
Stergos knelt at the foot of the bier and drew the scarlet hood of his habit over his head. As the Lord Admiral hovered uncertainly and the guards presented their swords, Conrig regarded the late king’s body in silence for a brief minute. Then he took the iron cask hoop and set it upon his own wheaten hair, which was still wet with rain.