“The Conjure-Queen will do nothing to outrage your dignity,” Conrig reassured her. “She will only look at the child in a special way, without even touching you.”
“I still hate being in her power. Helpless.”
“Perhaps it’s your Didionite heritage that makes you uneasy. You have a natural distrust of magic, owing to your people’s hostility to the sorcerers of neighboring Moss. And it’s only natural that you should still resent Ullanoth’s role in Didion’s… submission to the Sovereignty.”
“Our defeat!” Risalla sighed and her eyes slowly closed again. “To say nothing of the shame that most of our warriors died not in honest battle, but as the prey of bloodsucking tiny monsters, commanded by your good friend, the Conjure-Queen. All Didion knows that she invoked the Beaconfolk as well as the spunkies to ensure your victory. And so do many of your own nobles, here in Cathra. They believe you are in league with the Lights.”
“Madam, you don’t know what you’re saying.” He tried to speak calmly— for, after all, she was hardly conscious and Gossy had assured him that she would remember none of this tomorrow. Yet he had no doubt that Risalla spoke now from deep conviction, freed by the alchymical potion from the constraint of prudence that usually governed her tongue. It was no surprise to Conrig that the barbarous Didionites should believe him to be in thrall to Beaconfolk magic. But if it were true that his own people gave serious credence to the notion…
“Who among the Cathran nobility has spoken so perfidiously?” he asked her. But she only turned away and seemed to sleep.
There came a sound of hesitant knocking. The king rose from beside his wife’s couch and opened the door. The corridor was empty except for his elder brother Stergos, the Royal Alchymist, attired in splendid crimson vestments in honor of the festival. Although he was five years Conrig’s senior, he appeared to be much younger, with a clean-shaven round face and curly blond hair that always seemed slightly disordered. Tonight he was obviously ill at ease and his brow was dewed with perspiration.
Stergos whispered, “All’s well with Her Grace?”
Conrig nodded and the alchymist came quickly into the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. “I bespoke Ullanoth in Royal Fenguard castle not ten minutes ago. She can ascertain nothing through her ordinary scrying, but if the unborn possesses talent, she will be able to Send to it as she does to you and me. First, let me make certain that your lady sleeps.” With great care, Stergos lifted one of the queen’s eyelids. The iris with its dilated pupil had rolled upward. “Good. Now we must distance ourselves from Risalla if the experiment is to work. Let’s go into the queen’s sitting room.”
They passed through Conrig’s great bedchamber and Risalla’s adjacent one into the spacious solar where the queen and her ladies were accustomed to sew, read, and break their fast. “We should be at least twenty ells away from her,” Stergos said, “so our own talent is incapable of giving substance to the Sending.”
“What then?”
“I am to bespeak the Conjure-Queen that all is in readiness,” said his brother, perching on one of the chairs near the cold fireplace. The king took the other one. “She will attempt the Sending, while we pray she does not succeed. If Ullanoth walks through that door, it means that the babe’s talent permitted her to materialize beside Risalla.”
“And I’m futtered once again,” Conrig murmured bitterly. “Damn it, Gossy! If I could but convince the Lords of the South to do away with the impediment, then I’d be safe and so would my sons… What a king young Bramlow would make! Bold as a hawk and sharp as a varg sword! You should have seen the little rogue get the better of that bloody pet monkey this evening.” He described the scene in the royal nursery, and Stergos had to smile in spite of his nervousness.
“I punished the lad harshly,” Conrig admitted. “A week’s confinement on bread and milk. He must learn self-discipline if we ever hope to have the talent restriction lifted. The Lords of the South will never yield if they envision a wizard with overt powers sitting one day on the throne.”
Stergos ventured, “Shall I windspeak the Conjure-Queen now?”
“Wait just a moment.” The king casually covered his mouth with his hand. “I must ask your advice on another matter before we converse with Ulla’s Sending. She almost never uses the Loophole to eavesdrop now because of her considerable pain-debt, and if we guard ourselves from scrier’s lip-reading, our speech should be secure from her.”
“What is it, Con?” Stergos had drawn the hood of his crimson cloak over his head so that his face was concealed.
“I had disquieting news from Parlian Beorbrook tonight at the feast. You know he’s just come down from an inspection of our Wold Road outposts in western Didion.”
“Don’t tell me Prince Somarus is up to his old tricks!”
“No. As far as the earl marshal can tell, the bastard’s lying doggo for the moment somewhere in the Lady Lakes region. Beorbrook’s news concerns something far more serious: a rumor that Maudrayne may be alive, hiding somewhere in Tarn. A traveler from Donorvale said that the rumor has spread like wildfire over the past two weeks among the fishermen’s taverns of the northwestern shore, and thence to the low dives of the Tarnian capital.”
The hooded figure of the alchymist had given a great start as the king spoke his first wife’s name. “Saint Zeth preserve us—it’s not possible that Maude lives! The conjoined minds of the Brotherhood searched the entire island, virtually inch by inch, and failed to scry any trace of the Princess Dowager. Even Ullanoth’s Subtle Loophole detected nothing—and the sigil supposedly can oversee anyone, anywhere in the world.”
“So the Conjure-Queen says. But her close scrutiny took place four years ago, shortly after Maude was thought to have drowned. At the time, Ulla admitted that her search might have been thwarted by Red Ansel Pikan. The magical capabilities of the Grand Shaman of Tarn are unknown to her. He might have been able to block the action of the Great Stone. The painful search effort so debilitated Ullanoth that she was forced to avoid using Loophole for many months. Since then, as far as I know, she has made no further attempt to look for Maude.”
“What are we to do, Con?” Stergos’s voice was taut with shock. He and the king had found and read Maudrayne’s secret diary after her presumed death. In it, she had revealed not only that she had conceived Conrig’s child, but also her knowledge of her husband’s arcane taint. “If the princess lives and has birthed a son not possessed of talent, you are undone! She knows your secret and could divulge it at any time, with Ansel to testify to the truth of it. Even if your twin sons by Risalla are accepted as normal, the law says that Maudrayne’s boy must inherit your crown if you are deposed.”
“If she lives! And if she tells what she knows and produces the normal-minded male child. Here is where I require your advice, Gossy. Would it be wise for me to once again enlist the Conjure-Queen in the search for Maude? I’m reluctant to do so, since it would give Ulla even more power over me than she has now. I feel I’d be jumping from the hot griddle into the fire pit.”
“My God, yes. Her ambitions… Con, you know I’ve never trusted the woman.”
“Yes, yes,” the king said impatiently. “Nevertheless, her Loophole probably holds out the best chance of locating Maude and any child she may have had.”
“Perhaps not, if Red Ansel still keeps the Princess Dowager under his protection. But even the most powerful sorcery has limitations. For instance, Maudrayne and her child could not live permanently inside a spell of invisibility woven by Ansel. Such an existence would be insupportable to the healthy human temperament. Furthermore, a high-spirited woman such as Maude would never consent to be immured within some impregnable magical fortress for years upon end.”
Conrig gave a short mirthless laugh. “No, not Maude! She’d take her boy hiking on the tundra and sailing in her yacht on the arctic waters. She’d teach him to ski and to hunt elk and ice bears and sea unicorns. And if she does these things, there are bound t
o be local people who know about it. In my opinion, she might be sought and found by a clever and talented spy—such as my Royal Intelligencer, Snudge. What do you think, Gossy?”
Stergos hesitated. “If Maude is hiding in Tarn, she would surely be protected by the magic of more than one of the local shamans. Ansel would hardly spend all of his time shielding her. He has other responsibilities. Deveron Austrey would have a special advantage over the lesser northern adepts, since his talent is imperceptible to all but the most powerful. Furthermore, he’s impossible to windwatch, so they would be able to observe him only with ordinary eyesight. But what will you do if Deveron does discover that your former wife is alive, and has a son?”
“That… can be decided later. But I believe there’s only one solution to the problem.”
“For the love of God, Con, tell me you would not—”
The king cut off his brother’s horrified protest. “Say no more! This rumor may prove to be entirely false. We will not discuss the fate of the Princess Dowager now.”
“As you please, sire.”
Conrig said, “I gave Snudge permission to leave Gala Blenholme and visit his new estate following his initiation ceremony. He said he’d ride out at once. You must bespeak him, ordering his return.”
“Very well. I’ll take care of it as soon as we finish here.” Stergos threw off his vestment hood. “We should delay no longer bespeaking the Conjure-Queen.”
“Do it then,” Conrig said.
The Royal Alchymist let his head sink into his hands and called out silently on the wind. After a few minutes had passed, he opened his eyes and said, “She will make an attempt to Send immediately.”
They waited, straining their ears, fearing the sound of approaching steps from the room where Risalla lay, but hearing only the distant sounds of music and revelry outside in the gardens. At length Conrig leapt to his feet.
“I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going in there—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
The sweet woodsy scent of vetiver wafted into the room. A silhouette was standing in front of the tall, undraped window, completely enveloped in a deep green cloak. Ullanoth’s Sending had flashed into existence with no warning. A hand, pale as milk and wearing a ring of carved moonstone on one long, graceful finger, emerged from the folds of cloth and extended itself towards Conrig.
He hastened to take the hand, brushing the back of it with his lips. He carefully avoided any contact with the ring, which was a powerful sigil named Weathermaker. “Gracious Queen, welcome.”
Ullanoth of Moss unfastened her cloak and handed it to the High King as though he were a simple lackey. Except for the purplish shadows about her eyes, her face was as lovely as ever, framed by shimmering long hair that mimicked the pearly interior of certain seashells. Her gown was the same unadorned green samite as her cape, and her belt was gold, with a hanging purse. Around her neck hung a golden chain with a curiously carved small translucent pendant that glowed in the dim room like wan foxfire—the Great Stone named Sender, the third major sigil that she owned. Its power, invoked only at the cost of terrible pain now that her debt to the Lights was so heavy, enabled Ullanoth to inhabit a magical simulacrum of her natural body, in which her soul might travel anywhere in the world while her true flesh lay senseless. The Sending was no vaporous ghost, but rather a warm and solid replica with a full palette of physical sensation, able to carry from its point of origin all clothing and other accoutrements worn or held by the original. It could not, however, draw sustenance from food or drink at its destination, nor could it carry back any foreign object. And if the Sending remained in existence for more than a few hours, the true body would begin to deteriorate mortally.
There was another important limitation to the Sending that only the most advanced arcane practitioners were aware of: it could materialize only near a talented person, from whom it drew magical substantiation.
“Then Risalla’s unborn child is free of talent!” Conrig cried joyously.
Ullanoth nodded. “Yes. Tonight, I’ve used Vra-Stergos as my substantiator. Let us go to your wife now and determine whether the babe is male or female.”
The three of them went into the room where Risalla lay, but after a few suspenseful moments Ullanoth stepped away from the sleeper’s couch and shook her head. “Alas for your hopes, my king! Your wife carries a healthy girl, without arcane talent as all of her sex must be, unless they are of far northern human blood… or doubly descended from the Green Ones.”
Conrig groaned. “If the laws of Didion prevailed here, the lass might reign as their great Queen Casabarela did! But Cathra reserves its crown for male issue, and so must my Sovereignty.”
“Unless the law is changed,” Stergos put in with a hopeful smile.
“Don’t be a fool, Gossy,” the king exclaimed. “Why should the Lords of the South agree to change it now, when all save we three believe there are two legitimate male heirs to the throne? We can only hope for a better outcome to a future pregnancy, and meanwhile pray that no enemy learns the secret of my poor sons and I.”
“There are only two enemies,” Ullanoth said, “that need concern you now.”
Conrig and Stergos regarded her with open dismay, each thinking that she must have heard the rumor about Maudrayne and her son.
But the Conjure-Queen went on to say, “My little brother Beynor knows nothing of your own talent—not yet. But he’s up to some kind of mischief with the Salka. I’ve been too indisposed to spy on him closely with the Loophole sigil of late, but my ordinary scrying reveals him to be in a state of unusual excitement. I’ve told you that Beynor spends his time studying the historical archives of his monstrous hosts in the Dawntide Isles. I cannot read lips well, and the Salka have erected magical barriers that dim my unaugmented oversight of their citadel. But I believe that Beynor may have made some important discovery. And he may have shared it with your old enemy, Vra-Kilian Black-horse, the former Royal Alchymist.”
“But how?” Stergos demanded. “Our wretched uncle was deprived of all talent by the iron gammadion before being confined to Zeth Abbey. Kilian is unable to speak on the wind himself, nor can he receive any windspoken communication from another. And no humans dare set foot on the Dawntide Isles, so there can have been no written message from Beynor delivered to the abbey.”
“My brother may have been cursed by the Lights and stripped of his sigils,” Ullanoth said, “but he still retains the strong natural talents he was born with. One of those is the ability to invade dreams. When we were young children, he used to torment me until I learned to shut him out. Fortunately, that defensive ability comes readily to those who are adept at the arcane arts.”
The king nodded thoughtfully, remembering that Snudge had also told him once of being harassed by Beynor while sleeping. “So you believe your brother communicates with Kilian through dreams?”
“Zeth Abbey is well shielded from windsearching, but I have been able to follow Beynor’s mental footsteps, as it were, to that place many times. I doubt there is any other person residing in the abbey who would be of interest to him.”
“Beynor and Kilian!” Conrig mused. “What common cause could the two exiles share nowadays? And yet they did conspire against me as I prepared to invade Didion…”
Ullanoth had learned some years ago that both villains shared knowledge of a mysterious hidden trove of sigils. But she was unaware that the king already knew of its existence.
“I shall have to warn Abbas Noachil about this at once,” Stergos said. “He’s very old and ill, but he can order the Brethren to take special precautions against Kilian’s escape.”
“That would be prudent.” Ullanoth turned to Conrig. “Unfortunately, Beynor has also attempted to invade the dreams of some person residing here in Gala Palace. I learned of this only two days ago, as I scried him on the parapet of the Salka island fortress and followed his windtrace. I don’t know who his intended target was, only that the dreamer successfully
repelled Beynor’s effort.”
“God’s Teeth!” Conrig exclaimed. “Could the bastard have been trying to enter my dreams?”
“Were you aware of any such assault?” Ullanoth asked. When Conrig admitted he could recall no such thing, she smiled. “Then you’re very likely safe. Your talent, meager though it is, would probably have alerted your sleeping mind to any attempt at forcible entry. Were you an untalented person, however, it’s possible he might have invaded you without your being aware of what was happening.”
“This is a troubling piece of news,” Stergos said. “If Beynor’s target was not the High King, then who might it have been?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Dream-invasion is an uncommon talent. Certain members of Moss’s Glaumerie Guild have used it in the past to gather information from the minds of ordinary folk, or as a means of subtly coercing dreamers into some activity. More often than not, the invasion fails of its objective unless the dreamer is predisposed to cooperate, is very young, or has impaired willpower.”
“Will you continue to oversee Beynor’s footprints on the wind,” Conrig besought her, “and warn us if he attempts some wicked ploy among the residents of Gala Palace? I would deem it a great favor.”
“You ask the impossible. My surveillance of my brother is sporadic at best because I am so drained of strength. I only undertake it to protect myself and my kingdom from his evil designs.”
“Then what can we do?” Conrig asked.
“Nothing except be on guard.” Ullanoth took her cloak from Conrig’s hands and wrapped it about her once again. “It’s time for me to leave you. I dare not let my Sending remain here any longer, for I feel myself growing very weak. Be assured that I’ll notify Vra-Stergos promptly if I should discover anything that you should know.”