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Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale
Julian May
The stunning conclusion to a powerful epic fantasy from the worldwide bestselling author of the Saga of the Pliocene Exile.For sixteen years King Conrig Ironcrown has ruled High Blenholme, battling both to preserve the Sovereignty he ruthlessly established over the four provinces of the island kingdom and to repel the invading Salka monsters that threaten them all. His hope for the future is his heir, Prince Orrion, whose betrothal to a princess of the province of Didion should assure the future peace of High Blenholme. But Orrion has no interest in the girl, and is determined to marry instead his childhood sweetheart, Lady Nyla.Orrion's madcap twin, Corodon, dreams up a scheme to keep Orry and Nyla together by asking the supernatural Beaconfolk, who appear as lights in the sky, for a magical intercession. The twins are unaware that the Beaconfolk are fighting their own battle with others of their kind; to them all humans, even princes, are but pawns to be used in their own conflict. Their granting of Orrion's wish comes in a manner the twins far from expected, and precipitates chaotic infighting amongst the folk of High Blenholme.As battles rage both on the ground and in the sky, the only hopes for peace can be found deep in King Conrig’s murky past. His former spy, Deveron Austrey, has secret magical powers and no love for the Beaconfolk. And while many of his subjects no longer remember the King's first wife, Maudrayne, she has never forgotten that her son is the true heir to the throne of High Blenholme.



Sorcerer’s Moon
THE BOREAL MOON TALE BOOK THREE
Julian May




As our valiant warriors proceed inland in the conquest of High Blenholme Island, I command that all inactive moonstone amulets discovered on the dead bodies of our Salka foe be smashed into dust and scattered to the Boreal Winds, for the sorcery they conjure is an abomination and a mortal danger to all thinking creatures – be they human or nonhuman.
– BAZEKOY, Emperor of the World

Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ud1e730b3-577b-5340-ab9e-b0b9e59152eb)
Title Page (#u72cbe764-e2f7-5df5-b7fc-05928d9657c8)
Epigraph (#u6f30eec4-9ef9-5c3f-b629-61bf280d0215)
Prologue (#ubf5d157d-85d1-5232-8917-6c6861d955f7)
ONE (#ub36deae0-9163-5d8f-86fc-2416cb70f282)
TWO (#u2b5e3599-ec7c-57c9-af12-12587b24eb84)
THREE (#u756b481f-1078-544c-92a4-d457f57c73d3)
FOUR (#uc5481996-cf04-5406-bfad-a230188a2ed5)
FIVE (#u6590b8ad-19fa-547e-81d4-a20c952212ef)
SIX (#u797b493c-8219-5f62-87c8-a79a6cc1bd72)
SEVEN (#u0dcb9dfe-daba-5c3f-a12d-7ac40c0e8e5d)
EIGHT (#u5d9d11a0-0c1e-5f15-8115-f20d342a0529)
NINE (#u146b06ae-3410-5a44-937f-8da3aed9c146)
TEN (#u07fc3d4a-ec29-5012-85b2-5a1607c4c783)
ELEVEN (#u57be86c0-3701-5c6a-8f93-0964f36d5ba8)
TWELVE (#u83b5e020-b8f7-5f47-b130-4c93f8ce259c)
THIRTEEN (#u0a272c23-bd28-56e9-b1f0-bdccbc1185ce)
FOURTEEN (#u27be574e-3d78-5850-a9cc-e9ad49d10993)
FIFTEEN (#u4f5ee679-ff8d-5637-93a7-9c7687bd3399)
SIXTEEN (#ub20959b2-b517-5b3d-9e9a-dc496fd78677)
SEVENTEEN (#ubfdbf769-3530-5776-9f15-5dc6d32b0842)
EIGHTEEN (#u567272cc-4b20-572f-b778-ced564a3d440)
NINETEEN (#u2ccf8df9-295b-5361-9a1c-da00a40bace2)
TWENTY (#uba86ef65-6d91-52e0-b371-c472dc51eede)
TWENTY-ONE (#u47da55d7-d432-53ef-af0a-5d8cbdb1c62e)
TWENTY-TWO (#u436e479c-96cc-5b57-8604-02f016d05269)
EPILOGUE (#u49a49011-3a60-5a69-9f87-ede91dfbd006)
About the Author (#u06a85622-c877-5d06-8dac-5b9c4691268d)
By Julian May (#ua57fadda-9d76-505f-95f6-cf3be7b76a4d)
Copyright (#u2db711bf-db45-5b0e-8e4c-ee3fe5a78b49)
About the Publisher (#u5fea182d-872d-590d-a51f-272d662ac68a)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_79093ba2-1fe6-5e5a-8a14-df38c7af8e9c)
The Royal Intelligencer
With evening, the incessant warm rain that had plagued us for three days stopped, the sky cleared at last, and I caught a glimpse of the rising moon. Its position confirmed the fear that had haunted me since morning. We were traveling in the wrong direction, going north instead of south. We were lost.
Even worse, I was now positive that something was stalking us. It was very large, clever enough to stay hidden in the thick brush along the shore, and it betrayed itself only rarely by unnatural movements of the greenery or a slight sound –
Like that! The faint crack of a broken stick.
I stopped paddling and the skiff drifted to a halt. I peered into shadowy undergrowth a dozen ells away and cupped a hand about my ear, straining to listen. There was no wind. The waters of the lake were flat calm. Save for the faraway wailing cry of a black-throated diver bird, the silence was absolute. My normal senses perceived nothing. Once again, I tried without success to summon my talent, but my uncanny abilities were still too weak even to scry through the flimsy barrier of reeds and shrubs into the boreal forest beyond.
Yet instinct assured me that the stalker was there, watching us.
The sky overhead had turned to deepest blue, with a few scattered stars beginning to appear. On my right hand the full Harvest Moon rose, brilliantly white, through the raggedy ranks of spruce trees that topped the ridge alongside the narrow lake. I looked toward the opposite shore and beheld a wonderful thing in the sky above it – a great arc of pearly light spread across the retreating bank of rainclouds in the west.
I must have exclaimed at the sight of it, waking her. Induna stirred in the bottom of the boat, uncovered her head, which had been shielded from the rain by blankets and an oilskin cloak, and lifted herself painfully on one elbow.
‘Deveron?’ Her voice was low and anxious. ‘Is something wrong?’
For the moment, I dodged the question. ‘Look over there. It’s a moon bow.’
‘How beautiful. I’ve heard of them but never seen one before. They’re supposed to portend great good luck.’
I thought: We have sore need of that, beyond doubt!
Even as we watched, the marvel began to fade. It was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. I took up the water-flask and bent over the woman who should have been my wife sixteen years ago, who had already given up so much for my sake and who now might be rewarded only with gruesome death. Induna lay with her head pillowed on a pack. She had been asleep for hours, still recovering from the sacrifice made shortly after our arrival in this forsaken wilderness three days earlier.
I said, ‘Take some water, love. I’ll help you to sit up.’
The boat rocked as we shifted position. It was a flat-bottomed skiff of the unique Andradhian style, made of tough sheets of thin bark, pointed at both ends. The Boatwright I’d bought it from had intended it for the jungle streams of the distant Southern Continent; but being lightweight and easy to portage, it was also the perfect craft for voyaging among the bewildering maze of bogs, rivers and chains of lakes that comprised the forbidding Green Morass of northern Didion.
Induna drank only a little before sinking back onto her improvised cushion with a sigh. ‘I feel stronger. The sleep did me good. I think I’ll be able to eat something tonight. Will we be going ashore soon? My poor bladder is nigh bursting.’
I pointed to a small wooded island that lay off the bow. ‘We’ll camp there, rather than on the mainland. I…think something might be following the boat along the shore, keeping out of sight.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Is it an animal?’
‘Perhaps not. It tracks us very slyly. It’s best that we not take chances.’
‘So you can’t oversee what it might be?’
I began to paddle again, digging briskly. ‘My wind-sensibilities are still useless, even though my physical strength now seems completely restored, thanks to you.’
‘How long has this creature been trailing us?’
‘God only knows. I became aware of it this morning, shortly after we embarked from the last campsite, but it might have been pursuing us for longer, hidden by the mist and rain. It’s a sizable thing, probably much larger than a human being. I pray it’s only a curious brown bear or wandering tundra-lion. I can fend a beast off easily with a few firebolts from my crossbow.’
She spoke hesitantly. ‘Could it possibly be a Salka? You recall that I told you that the forces of the Sovereignty believed that the monsters’ main force was massed many leagues to the north of here, around Beacon Lake. But they might have sent out scouts.’
‘I think not. The amphibians move clumsily on land, as this thing does not. And Salka would be more likely to follow a small boat by swimming underwater. Our pursuer is something else.’
Induna and I both suspected what it might be. But neither of us wanted to name the dire possibility aloud, nor did we voice the uncomfortable thought that we might have been under observation by the supposedly extinct Morass Worms almost from the first disastrous moment of our arrival.
Like most citizens of Cathra, I’d known almost nothing of the giant horrors until I came to live in Tarn. Induna’s mother had told legends of them as we shared the folklore of our disparate homelands during long winter nights in the Deep Creek Cove manorhouse. No Tarnian had laid eyes on a Morass Worm for at least three hundred years, but their memory lived on through grisly tales relished by the simpler people of the northlands. The storytellers could not even agree upon the fabled creatures’ appearance, describing them variously as huge fanged eels, scaly serpents, slime-covered salamanders, or even colossal centipedes with writhing multiple limbs. Like the Salka, the Green Men, and the Small Lights, they were said to be prehistoric inhabitants of the island who were driven into the waste lands by invading humankind. The worms were intelligent, not mere animals. Supposedly they were able to appear out of nowhere and kill their prey by breathing fire. The hardheaded Didionite foresters who dwelt in the far northern parts of High Blenholme mostly scoffed at the old tales and were certain that the worms no longer existed – if they ever had. But then, humans almost never ventured into the trackless depths of the Green Morass…
After an interval of tense silence, during which I paddled as strongly as I could, I said to Induna, ‘In the tales your mother told back at our manorhouse, she said that the Morass Worms and the Salka were deadly enemies in ancient times. Would the amphibians dare to invade Blenholme from the north coast if their old antagonists still lived in the region?’
‘Perhaps the Salka leaders also believed the worms to be extinct,’ Induna said. ‘After all, their Eminent Four are natives of the Dawntide Isles, unfamiliar with Blenholme’s remote interior.’
It was something worth pondering, but we spoke no more about it, for we had finally reached the lake island. As the hull of the skiff grounded on the muddy bottom, I hopped into the shallow water and lifted Induna’s slight form in my arms, carrying her ashore. She insisted she was now able to walk. After she made a discreet detour into the bushes, we traveled a short distance inland until we reached a clearing among the trees that I deemed safer for a campsite than the beach. I planned to surround it with numbers of the magical turquoise warning-pebbles that I carried and make several large fires as well.
While she sat resting on a rock, still wrapped in the oilskin cloak, I snapped off deadwood from the lower trunks of the spruces until there was a sizable heap a few feet away from her, then set this reasonably dry small stuff ablaze with several tarnsticks from my waterproof belt-pouch. I was still incapable of summoning fire with magic.
Induna gave a sigh of satisfaction and held out her hands to the warmth. The flames emphasized her pallid skin and dark green eyes. Her hair, normally a lustrous red-gold aureole, had turned to dark tendrils from the prevailing dampness. She still suffered the effects of her soul’s diminishing, but her ability to walk and sit upright now without assistance seemed hopeful signs.
‘I’ll bring larger pieces of driftwood from the shore and build a better fire as soon as I get the boat out of the water and unload the packs,’ I said. ‘Will you be all right here alone for a few minutes?’
‘Don’t worry, Deveron. I’m really feeling much stronger.’ She smiled at me. ‘And I’m still very glad that I came with you.’
Her words sent a pang of guilt through my heart. ‘You should not have taken hold of me as I conjured the sigil,’ I muttered. ‘Who knows what will become of us now? The unknown thing that follows is only one of the dangers besetting us. We’re lost, Induna! The overcast skies and tangled waterways, combined with the quenching of my talent caused by moonstone sorcery, have muddled my wits completely. I have no notion where the castle might be. All we can do is reverse direction and travel southward in the morning, and pray that my abilities recover enough for me to scry the place out and conjure effective magical defenses that will get us there in safety. My Andradhian pebble-charms and other weapons can’t protect us for long against thinking adversaries – whatever their shape.’
‘All will be well. Remember the moon bow!’
Her attempt at good cheer only made me feel worse. Anger as well as dread rose like a hot tide in my soul and I could not help the bitter words that burst forth. ‘Moon bow luck is only a fairytale spun for gullible children, sweetheart, as you know very well. This venture is a failure before it has scarce begun, and I curse the Source for dragging you into it – for using you as the bait to lure me back into his demonic conflict. He knew very well that I’d be convinced by no one else, that my love for you had only strengthened after all the years spent apart and I’d do whatever you asked. The Source reunited us – but small joy we’ll have in one another! We’ll likely die in this cursèd Green Morass, while he and his immortal cohorts will live on and find more effective human pawns to fight their battles among the stars.’
She responded with spirit. ‘I’m no pawn, Deveron Austrey! No one forced me to bring the Source’s message. I enlisted in the New Conflict freely – as you once did. And it was my own free choice to accompany you to the morass in spite of your protests. Perhaps I was a fool to come. But what would have happened had I not been at your side to release you from Subtle Gateway’s pain-debt after we arrived here? Without me, your drowned body would now be lying on a riverbank, with wolves and swamp-fitches gnawing your bones.’
‘True,’ I agreed wretchedly. My eyes welled up at the loving fervor in the voice of this woman I had abandoned so many years ago, whose fate was once again linked inseparably with mine. ‘I am glad you’re here.’ I strode to her and clasped her to my breast. ‘How could I not be? Somehow, we’ll survive. And return together to the Barking Sands.’
She murmured a few words, lifting her face to be kissed. But even as I bent to comply she went stiff in my arms, and from her parted lips came a soft moan of terror. ‘Deveron…behind you.’
Still holding her tightly to me, I swung about and saw a huge thing looming amongst the dark spruces. Its sinuous body was thicker than a barrel and gleamed wet and smooth in the dancing firelight, appearing to be at least five ells in length. It had approached us without a sound. As we gaped, too stricken to move, it reared up and revealed strong limbs armed with scythe-like claws. In its own hideous fashion, it was quite beautiful. The gemlike green eyes set into its grotesquely ornate head shone with an inner radiance that betokened talent as well as intelligence. It opened its mouth slightly, showing yellowish fangs as lucent as topaz, and gave a soft hiss as it glided toward us, fraught with elegant menace.
The Morass Worm matched none of the trite descriptions of the old tales. Its glossy, longnecked body was apparently clothed in sleek wet fur or dark feathers rather than scales, and its exhalations, while fetid enough, lacked the hot sulphurous taint of its mythical namesake. It was no fire-breather, but rather a creature of flesh and blood. During my long exile in southern Andradh, I’d heard sailors from the Malachite Islands sing songs about such fearsome predators, giving them another name. The creature menacing us had no wings, unlike its Andradhian counterpart, but its frightful conformation was almost identical. It was a dragon.
It spoke, and we heard it not with our ears but with our minds.
I command that you shall not move. I command that you shall not use the Salka moonstones, nor conjure any other sorcery against me.
Its windvoice was silken-soft, almost languid, full of arrogant confidence. Induna and I were helpless, incapable of fight or flight. I was aware of an awesome talent inspecting us as though we were novel and unsavory specimens on an alchymist’s bench.
‘We mean no harm,’ I managed to say. ‘We are only lost travelers, trying to find Castle Morass –’
Silence!
The great neck arched downward and the talons reached out and seized both of us. We clung tighter to one another and prepared to die. The creature pulled us toward its opening mouth. Its eyes were like blazing emeralds with central pools of darkness that grew to enormous proportions and then swallowed us whole.

In the earlier volumes of this Boreal Moon Tale, I told of my first years of service to Conrig Wincantor, nicknamed Ironcrown, High King of Cathra and Sovereign of High Blenholme Island. I, Deveron Austrey, was born with powerful uncanny abilities that were strangely imperceptible to the Brothers of Zeth, who examine small children for such traits and compel the windtalented to join their Mystical Order. One of my gifts, which I hardly understood during my boyhood, enabled me to detect magical potential in others.
At the age of twelve, when I was a lowly apprentice leatherworker in the Cala Palace stables and Conrig was Prince Heritor of Cathra, I chanced to look into the royal youth’s eyes as I helped him mount his horse. There I recognized the faint but unmistakable glint that marks a person possessing magical talent. Not knowing its importance, I blurted out my discovery to the appalled prince. Fortunately for me, no other person was near enough to overhear. So instead of having me killed, Conrig made me his personal snudge (or spy) and called me by that name.
I kept his secret, which would have disqualified him for the Cathran kingship even though his talent was very meager. In time, with a good deal of assistance from the powerful sorceress Ullanoth of Moss – and, I must admit, from me – Conrig inherited his father’s throne.
After winning a war against the forces of Didion, Ironcrown declared himself the Sovereign of Blenholme. A few years later he fulfilled his ambition to unite the four quarreling states of our island into a single nation. But this was to be only a first step toward Conrig’s ultimate objective: to emulate his ancestor, Emperor Bazekoy the Great, and conquer the rest of the known world.
Conrig Wincantor was a brilliant politician and a warrior of immense valor. Nevertheless he possessed a ruthlessness and an icy expediency that often troubled my over-tender conscience; but in spite of these misgivings, I served him faithfully throughout my adolescence. When I entered manhood at the age of twenty, Conrig knighted me, named me his Royal Intelligencer, and almost immediately entrusted me with a crucial new mission.
I was sent to the land of Tarn to search for the king’s vengeful divorced wife, Princess Maudrayne. Believed to be drowned, she had reappeared after four years and posed a unique threat to the Sovereignty. Not only had she covertly given birth to Conrig’s eldest son – who by law would take precedence over the king’s heirs by his second marriage – but she also knew that her former husband possessed weak magical talent. If she revealed his secret and convinced the Lords Judicial of Cathra that she spoke the truth, Conrig would lose his throne. Even if she were not believed, her mere accusation might fatally undermine the already wavering loyalty of the vassal states of Tarn and Didion and plunge the island into chaos.
Ironcrown was adamant that I should do whatever was necessary to guarantee Maudrayne’s silence, as well as eliminate the dynastic menace posed by her young son Dyfrig. I balked at the obvious solution – assassination – and conceived a plan that I hoped might save the lives of the princess and her little boy while still satisfying the king.
As I undertook the difficult task of finding the pair, I discovered that the stability of Conrig’s reign had a more overreaching importance: High Blenholme Island was about to be invaded by a horde of Salka monsters. Incited by the young sorcerer Beynor ash Linndal, deposed ruler of Moss and brother to his successor Conjure-Queen Ullanoth, the enormous amphibians intended to take back the island from which most of them had been expelled over a thousand years earlier by Emperor Bazekoy.
Both Beynor and the Salka planned to use moonstone sigils, instruments of sorcery empowered by the supernatural Beaconfolk, to bring about the reconquest. The auroral Beacons, who were also called the Great Lights, comprised two opposing factions that were embroiled in a mysterious New Conflict of their own. I had been drawn into it against my will – as had numbers of other humans who are also part of this Boreal Moon Tale – but by the end of the mission involving Princess Maudrayne and her son, I mistakenly believed I had escaped the Lights’ thrall.
The mission itself was both a success and a failure. With the help of loyal companions – and my reluctant employment of two moonstone sigils, which the ‘good’ Light called the Source had compelled me to accept – I rescued Maudrayne and her child Dyfrig from a strange captivity. I was able to convince the princess to recant her spiteful revelation of Conrig’s secret to the Sealords of Tarn. In turn, the High King agreed that young Dyfrig might be placed third in the Cathran royal succession, behind his twin sons Orrion and Corodon, born of his marriage to Risalla of Didion. The boy was to become the adopted son of Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook, a Cathran peer of uncompromising honesty. To assure the child’s loyalty to the Sovereign, Dyfrig would never see or communicate with his mother again.
Unknown to me, Ironcrown was too cynical to trust his former wife’s promise not to publicly reaffirm his secret talent. After having agreed that Maudrayne would be allowed to live in quiet exile with her Tarnian relatives, he arranged for her murder by poison, which was passed off as suicide. I was so disillusioned by the king’s perfidy that I left his service without permission. I fled to a remote region of western Tarn, accompanied by a young woman named Induna of Barking Sands, an apprentice shaman-healer who had earlier saved my life and also assisted in the rescue of Maudrayne and her son. For a few months I lived with Induna and her mother in a tiny village near Northkeep.
In the best of romantic endings I should have married Induna and made a new life for myself, secure from the Sovereignty’s tumult and intrigues as well as from the more subtle machinations of the Beaconfolk.
The reality was messier.
Shortly after my abrupt resignation from the intelligencer post, I sent a message to Conrig via his elder brother Vra-Stergos, Cathra’s Royal Alchymist, who had been friendly toward me during my years of service to the king. In it I apologized for my affront to the regal dignity (but gave no reason for my dereliction of duty), swore that I intended to continue guarding Conrig’s secret with my life, and said that I wanted only to be left in peace. I also returned the considerable sum of money vouchsafed to me by the Crown when I was granted knighthood.
There was no reply to my message, and none of my later attempts to windspeak Lord Stergos were successful. He and Conrig were occupied with more urgent matters. The king’s domestic enemies, Cathra’s Lords of the Southern Shore, had demanded that he defend himself against persistent Tarnian accusations that he possessed magical talent, was thus not the legitimate High King of Cathra, and therefore was unworthy of Tarn’s fealty.
The official inquiry was as brief as it was dramatic. No member of Cathra’s Mystical Order of Zeth could swear that they detected talent in the king. (The scrupulously honest Vra-Stergos was saved from having to condemn his brother because of the precise wording of the oath, even though he knew well enough that the accusation was true.) Maudrayne was believed dead and unable to renew her denunciation, and I was shielded by sorcery and refused to testify. Since there were no other witnesses against Conrig who had status under Cathran law, he won his case easily.
The Sealords of Tarn cursed all lawyers and grudgingly continued to pay the heavy taxes imposed by the Sovereignty. The wealthy Lords of the Southern Shore did the same, thwarted in their attempt to put Duke Feribor Blackhorse, their ringleader, on the Cathran throne in place of Conrig.
In the devastated little kingdom of Moss, far from the tranquil cottage on the edge of the Western Ocean where I dwelt with Induna and her mother, the Salka hunkered down in the lands they had overrun and pondered the next big step in the reconquest of ‘their’ island. They owned numbers of minor moonstone sigils which they had already successfully used as weapons, and hatched plans to obtain others that were more potent. Conjure-Queen Ullanoth, who had ruled Moss before the Salka invasion, was believed by most people to have perished through imprudent use of her sigils. Her scheming younger brother Beynor had dropped out of sight after quarreling with the victorious monsters, his former secret allies. No one knew (or cared) what had become of him.
With the security of the Sovereignty now his primary concern, Conrig garrisoned troops at crucial points along the Dismal Heights from Rainy Pass to Riptide Bay, supposedly making a land invasion of Didion by the Salka impossible. At the same time the formidable Joint Fleet of the Sovereignty, equipped with tarnblaze cannons, patrolled the waters off the island’s eastern coast in a show of strength designed to keep the amphibians in check. In spite of the blockade, the monsters made several waterborne forays against coastal settlements of Didion and Cathra. But finally, in a single decisive battle, the Salka stronghold in the Dawntide Isles was completely destroyed by the Sovereignty, and an interval of peace settled over High Blenholme.

As for myself, Induna and her mother Maris, a much-admired shaman in Tarn’s coastal Stormlands, had invited me to stay with them indefinitely in order to learn the healer’s art, since I no longer had any taste for spying. Using part of the fortune she had inherited from her late grandsire, the renegade wizard Blind Bozuk, Induna purchased a fine manorhouse and lands that lay in a pleasant place called Deep Creek Cove, backed by grasslands. For my sake the manor was fortified with ingenious magical defenses. Rumors persisted that High King Conrig still thought I was even more of a threat to his Iron Crown than Maudrayne had ever been. Induna and I both feared he’d eventually send someone to eliminate me, and we resolved to be ready.
Maris was a kind person endowed with singular wisdom, who helped me to a deeper understanding of my uncanny abilities. (Up until then, I had been entirely self-taught in magic.) She also gave me valuable advice concerning the two moonstone sigils, Concealer and Subtle Gateway, that were still in my possession. I yearned to cast those soul-destroying tools of the Beaconfolk into the deep sea so I’d never again be tempted to use them; but Maris counseled against it. In one of her trances, she’d had a puzzling vision concerning me and the stones and an enigmatic black creature bound with sapphire chains who dwelt beneath the icecap of the Barren Lands. Maris had no notion of the dark thing’s identity – although I had! – but she was certain that my destiny involved both the creature and the two sigils. When Induna added her pleas to those of her mother, I finally agreed to keep the moonstones.
Induna…
She later admitted that she had loved me almost as soon as she first saw me lying senseless in a rock shelter on the Desolation Coast, at the point of death after having rashly used the Subtle Gateway sigil to transport me and my companions and all our gear to the place where Maudrayne and Dyfrig were imprisoned. Induna realized at once that my mortal illness was the result of Beaconfolk sorcery. The terrible beings of the Sky Realm were feeding on my pain, and no groundling remedy could heal me.
So she shared with me a small portion of her own soul, in a manner that only northland shamans are capable of. It left her diminished even as it cured me. Later, she performed the same mystical operation once again, shortly before I decided to renounce my fealty to King Conrig. Her selfless acts of generosity did not immediately inspire my love. On the contrary, I was left with vague feelings of discomfort and indebtedness that only melted away during the long months when we worked together and began to really know one another.
I was amazed when it finally occurred to me that life without her would be unthinkable. The emotion I felt toward Induna at that time was no overwhelming passion: I was then, as I am now, a man plagued by an aloof and calculating nature. But she was my best friend, my teacher, and my comforter, and if I did not yet love her as wholeheartedly as she loved me, I still wanted none other for my wife.
We were solemnly betrothed according to Tarnian custom, and planned to marry in the summer of 1134, in Blossom Moon, when I was one-and-twenty years of age and Induna was eighteen. But the Cathran warship arrived in the waters off Deep Creek Cove three weeks before that, and our happy plans came to nothing.

Commanded by Tinnis Catclaw, the same debonair but unscupulous Lord Constable who had agreed to murder Princess Maudrayne on Conrig’s orders, the vessel carried a coven of mercenary Didionite wizards. Six of the disguised magickers came stealthily ashore and combined their talents to overpower Induna and Maris while they were beyond our home’s magical defenses, visiting the byre of a local small-holder to attend the difficult birth of a foal. I myself had been working with them, until I was sent back to the manorhouse to fetch a special physick to soothe the suffering mare. I was there when the wizards announced their ultimatum.
I was ordered to row out to the warship lurking just beyond the cove’s northern headland and surrender to the Lord Constable, who carried the Sovereign’s warrant for my arrest…or else scry my womenfolk as they were burnt alive in a tarnblaze holocaust that would leave behind nothing but a heap of charred bones.
The horrific tarnblaze chymical was impervious to any sorcerous intervention I might have attempted, nor had I any hope of reaching Induna and Maris before it could be ignited. I had no choice but to comply.
I left the place that had become my only true home and allowed myself to be shackled and hauled aboard the Cathran man o’ war. Lord Catclaw awaited me on deck, an oddly apologetic expression on his handsome countenance and his long blond hair tied in a tail. Two armed seamen gripped me. He ordered a third to slice off my clothing and footgear with a keen varg sword, using great caution. When I stood stark naked, the constable smiled in satisfaction as he saw the moonstone sigil called Concealer hanging on a thin chain around my neck. Properly conjured, it would render me invisible. Conrig knew about it, of course. I had used it in his service.
‘Don’t think to call upon your devilish Beaconfolk amulet,’ Catclaw warned me, ‘or I’ll have this fellow here bespeak the other wizards on shore to ignite the tarnblaze.’ He beckoned to a black-robed magicker standing nearby, who held a golden goblet and a pair of nippers. ‘You! Get the sigil off him. I’ve been told it cannot be conjured unless it’s next to his skin. Be very careful not to handle it yourself, except with the cup and tool. The High King himself has warned me of its perils.’
The wizard eased the translucent small pendant into the goblet, then severed its chain. Had he touched the moonstone with his own bare flesh, he would have been hideously burned. Concealer was bonded to me, and no one else could use it or even handle it with impunity.
‘Where is the second sigil?’ Catclaw demanded. ‘The one called Subtle Gateway, which transports a person instantly from place to place? I have been commanded by the King’s Grace to seize both amulets from you and bring them back to him.’
In spite of all my warnings, sigil sorcery obviously still held an unhealthy fascination for Conrig.
I responded in a near-whisper, which was all I was capable of without betraying myself. ‘I threw the thing into deep water months ago. His Grace knows full well how much I abominate moonstone magic. Concealer is a minor sort that causes only insignificant discomfort to the user, but Gateway was one of the so-called Great Stones. Conjuring it induced an appalling agony and put my very soul in peril to the pain-eating Beaconfolk. When I rescued Princess Maudrayne and completed my mission, I had no more need of it. I was glad to get rid of the thing.’
I was lying. But Catclaw was not about to find that out until I learned what he planned to do with me – along with Induna and Maris.
One of the ship’s officers stepped forward. ‘Shall we go ashore and search for the stone in his house, my lord?’
‘Why bother?’ I told the Lord Constable. ‘The sigils are worthless to the High King, whether he realizes it or not. When I die – and I presume my fate is sealed – any sigil owned by me becomes inactive: a worthless piece of rock. I learned how to use them only by a lucky accident. No one knows how to bond them to a new owner save the Salka who made them in the first place. Once, Queen Ullanoth of Moss and her lunatic brother Beynor also knew the secret. But she’s dead and he has disappeared.’
Tinnis Catclaw frowned and appeared to be considering the matter.
Emboldened, I asked the all-important question. ‘Do you now intend to kill my betrothed and her mother as well as me?’
The constable waved a dismissive hand. ‘The threat was only a bluff, a ploy to bring about your capture. Not even the Sovereign would dare harm a well-known shaman-healer such as Maris of Barking Sands, nor her daughter – who is an anointed Sealady of Tarn, albeit one of minimal rank. Such deeds might provoke the touchy Tarnian leaders beyond endurance. At this moment the girl and her mother are harmlessly sleeping off their enchantment, lying in the straw beside a mare and her newborn colt. The hireling wizards have followed my orders and scattered to the four winds. All they care about is how they’ll spend their bags of Cathran gold.’
I sighed in relief. The only persons that I had ever taken to my heart would be safe now from Conrig’s revenge…but only if I abandoned them.
‘How do you intend to dispose of me?’ I asked.
Catclaw pulled himself up in a dignified huff. ‘Your just punishment will be meted out strictly according to Cathran law. Once this warship rides the high seas, you’ll be tried for treason. Your disavowal of fealty meets the legal criterion. As Lord Constable, I have the judicial authority to order your summary execution. You’ll hang from a yardarm.’
‘But do you solemnly swear to me that Induna and Maris will be spared?’
‘I’ve already said so,’ Catclaw retorted testily, ‘and I’m a man of honor.’
‘Oh, yes?’ I hissed. ‘Did Princess Maudrayne find you honorable?’
His face drained of color. He gave a sharp command to the seamen who held and surrounded me. ‘All of you – move away from the prisoner! Draw your swords and stand ready, but step back. Farther yet! If he stirs, slay him where he stands.’
The astonished men retreated a good eight feet away. Catclaw stood very close to me and his voice would have been inaudible to the others.
‘Since you are to die within the hour, I’ll tell you how I dealt with Princess Maude. I was indeed commanded to kill her. I confess that I wrote her suicide note. It stated that she could not bear to live if she would never be allowed to see her son Dyfrig again, as the High King had decreed. I offered her poison…but gave her instead a potion that rendered her senseless and slowed her heart. She lay cold and still as a dead woman on the deck of my frigate, which was docked at Donorvale Quay, ready to return to Cathra with the boy. The Tarnian authorities bore witness to the sudden and tragic demise of the princess. Her body was placed in a lead coffin and kept in my own cabin, covered with a blanket of roses, until it could be buried at sea. This was High King Conrig’s command, following my own suggestion. Poor little Dyfrig was devastated by his mother’s suicide and could not bear to watch the ceremony. But the coffin my crew consigned to the depths of the Western Ocean was empty.’
I nearly choked upon that which I held inside my cheek. ‘Alive?’ I gasped.
‘She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever known,’ Tinnis Catclaw said. ‘Conrig Ironcrown cast her off when it seemed she could not bear him a son. He declared her an archenemy of the Sovereignty and commanded her death. But I had long loved her from afar. I still do – even though I am now able to visit her only on rare occasions in my hunting lodge north of Swan Lake, where she willingly remains hidden for the sake of Prince Dyfrig. Maude is a proud and spirited soul. But she is…kind to me. And kings do not live forever.’
‘Great God,’ I murmured. ‘You are as much a traitor as I.’
He smiled. ‘And yet, I don’t believe you’ll use your windspeech to reveal my secret before you die.’
‘No,’ I agreed. It was the farthest thing from my mind. ‘Conduct your trial, my lord. Prepare the rope. But I ask a favor, as one turncoat to another. Dress me in decent clothing beforehand, restore my knight’s belt and purse, and forgo shackles. I swear I’ll behave with dignity. And as I go to my death, let your wizard stand a few ells away holding the chalice with my sigil. It would give me a melancholy comfort to have it near me.’
He agreed.
Later, while the great ship sliced the waves on its southerly course, and those members of the crew who were not on watch gathered in solemn ranks to witness my dispatch, I mounted the improvised scaffold unfettered.
‘Do you have any last words?’ the Lord Constable asked me.
‘My lord, I bear you and the King’s Grace no malice,’ I told him. Tell Conrig that. And now, farewell.’
He stepped back to accommodate the hangman. I lifted my arm and cried out, ‘Concealer – to me!’
The sigil flew out of the cup and into my waiting hand. A roar of surprise rose from the astounded crew. But before a man of them could move, I intoned the brief spell that conjured the tiny door-shaped carving called Subtle Gateway, hardly larger than a thumbnail, which had been concealed in my mouth since I quit the manorhouse.
Agony smote me like a thunderclap. I knew that it was going to last for a long time, disabling me profoundly – perhaps even fatally – and this time there’d be no respite vouchsafed by Induna. The Great Lights would eat their fill of my pain without hindrance.
But if I survived, I’d open my eyes in the southernmost region of the continental nation of Andradh, over two thousand leagues away, far beyond the reach of Conrig Ironcrown, Sovereign of High Blenholme Island, and perhaps even beyond that of the Beaconfolk themselves.

I did survive.
And dwelt in Andradh among the Wave-Harriers for the next sixteen years, until Induna came knocking on my door and, against all odds, convinced me to become the Royal Intelligencer once again.

ONE (#ulink_16699294-4045-5a93-bbf5-228d3f096b7e)
It was a kind of daydream that overcame High King Conrig Wincantor at inconvenient moments, snatching him from the real world into a fantastic…elsewhere. Without warning, he would find himself in a cramped chamber, dimly lit and stifling, surrounded on all sides by a hostile mob.
The adversaries howled and darted at him like malignant phantoms, clutching at his crown – his priceless Iron Crown. They reached out with hands and claws and tentacles, howling curses and filthy insults, trying to rip the symbol of Sovereignty away from him, saying he had no right to it.
‘I do!’ he bellowed. ‘It’s mine. I earned it and defended it. Leave be! Go away!’
He fought them with all his mortal strength and with all his secret uncanny talent as well, smiting with his longsword and smashing and blasting the foe with magical bombards. Some of the raging attackers were human, persons that he’d loved who gave only hatred and malice in return; some enemies were rebellious vassals flouting his rightful authority; some were dimwitted grotesques trying to pull down the great edifice he’d built, in a pathetic extirpation motivated only by envy and spite.
Enemies all!
He’d fought them for years. He’d never surrender.
‘I won’t give in!’ he cried, holding tight to the crown. ‘I’ll rule this island and rule the world.’
‘No,’ they roared. ‘Never!’
‘Yes! I shall conquer. I shall!’
Always, as those last defiant words rang out, the frantic tugging weakened, yielding to his superior strength. The grasping tangle of limbs fell away from the prize, leaving him in sole possession. He crowned himself anew with the dark metal circlet and felt the old joy ignite within him, banishing all doubt and fear. Thwarted, the mass of enemies melted away, while his shout of triumph echoed in a vault of sunlit clouds.
‘My foes are many, but I crush them all. I bow to no power in the Sky or the Ground Realm. I reign. I rule!’
It was the simple truth…So why didn’t his enemies understand that and let him be? Why did they keep returning over and over to trouble him with these unquiet waking dreams?
Why?
It was maddening.

Orrion Wincantor, Prince Heritor of Cathra and unwilling bridegroom-elect, felt a need to stop and take stock of the situation before climbing any farther. He dropped behind his older brother, Vra-Bramlow, and his twin, Prince Corodon, and paused to catch his breath and stare up at the looming bulk of Demon Seat in morose silence.
Why did I let Bram and Coro talk me into this? he asked himself. Scaling a mountain in order to perform forbidden sorcery! The notion was idiotic…and damned dangerous as well. Coro might easily have broken his leg when he lost his footing and took a tumble back at the torrent, and he himself was rock-bruised and aching. But they’d nearly reached the top now, and it was probably too late to suggest they turn back without seeming to be craven.
Was it also too late to disavow the magical tomfoolery? Might he yet find a way to laugh off the venture after they’d gained the summit, claiming that he’d never intended to ask the Sky Demons for a blasphemous miracle and had only made the ascent to distract himself from his heartache?
But that would be a lie.
The view of the surrounding Cathran countryside was stupendous. From the ledge where he rested Orrion could see most of Swan Lake, the distinctive spiky crest above Beorbrook Hold, the isolated monolith of Elktor, and even a faraway twinkling to the east that had to be the famous crystal window of Castle Vanguard. Below him the steep ridges of the mountain’s south flank, thrown into prominence by bright sunlight, resembled notched axe-blades. The glacial ice lying between them was grubby from leftover ash that had been deposited by eruptions of Tarnian volcanos two decades earlier. A few pink and gold alpine wildflowers bloomed in crevices nearby. The summit rocks above showed patches of brilliant white, dusted by the first light snowfall of approaching autumn.
Summer that year had been uncommonly warm, melting more snow than usual from the Dextral Range. Even Demon Seat, the loftiest peak on High Blenholme Island, had lost most of the shroud that ordinarily softened its grim contours. The unusual sight of those bare slopes, visible to the three royal brothers from Swan Lake, had been the inspiration for this adventure. Orrion had yielded to the others’ urgings on a fatalistic impulse. It was a last resort. Why not chance it?
He bowed his head in misery. ‘Oh, Nyla,’ he whispered, ‘if only there were another way! Dearest friend of my childhood, everyone at court knew that I had chosen you for my bride. Even Father gave tacit consent – until that bastard, Somarus of Didion, murmured against the Sovereignty. And now, Nyla, our only hope lies in dark magic.’
Magic, that bane of the Wincantor family…
Prince Heritor Orrion had a profound distrust of uncanny powers. His study of certain Didionite documents, reluctantly provided by his mother Queen Risalla when he insisted on knowing the truth about the fall of Holt Mallburn, had convinced him that his father Conrig had made use of illicit Beaconfolk sorcery to establish his Sovereignty, thus committing a terrible sin against the Zeth Codex. Beyond doubt Conrig Wincantor had schemed with Ullanoth of Moss to conquer Didion’s capital city through foulest magic. He had also relied on the Conjure-Queen’s moonstone sigils to win the Battle of Cala Bay, forcing Didion to become the vassal of Cathra.
Over the years, the Lords of the Southern Shore had kept those shameful allegations of sorcery alive, just as they continued to stoke the fires of calumny hinting that Conrig himself was besmirched with windtalent. Now, with the latest Salka threat, Duke Feribor Blackhorse and his fellow conspirators openly speculated that the Sovereign was preparing to use Beaconfolk magic once again, to counter the monsters’ massive invasion of northern Didion.
But so what if he does? Orrion asked himself. Am I any better than my flawed sire? At least his sin might save our island from the Salka, whereas the deed I contemplate committing is motivated only by a selfish desire to escape a loveless marriage.

The brothers had begun their melancholy journey from Cala Palace to Boarsden Castle in Didion, where the betrothal ceremony was to take place, over a tennight earlier, allowing ample time for a side trip to Swan Lake. The two royal princes were each accompanied by six Heart Companions, young nobles who were close friends. Vra-Bramlow, the novice Brother of Zeth, had no retinue, as was fitting for one belonging to the austere Order.
Prince Orrion was a keen salmon angler. (Sportfishing with an artificial lure was now all the rage, having been newly introduced from Tarn.) His brothers hoped that a few days on the beautiful body of water would lift Orrion’s depressed spirits. The three princes and their entourage had been invited to stay at a rustic lodge owned by Count Swanwick, a trusted ally of the royal family. But the fish proved elusive and the diversion was turning out to be a failure.
It was Vra-Bramlow who conceived the audacious scheme to resolve his brother Orrion’s predicament once and for all. Before revealing his idea to the twins, he windspoke one of Castle Vanguard’s young alchymists, who had been a fellow student of occult science at Zeth Abbey, to verify that an ascent of the currently near-snowless Demon Seat would be feasible. A Vanguard resident would know if anyone did, since the peak was part of that dukedom.
Vra-Hundig reluctantly conceded that daring men might be able to climb to the top of the mountain, using trails that in other years were deeply buried in snowdrifts. A couple of madcap young fellows had scaled the peak some sixty years ago for the fun of it, but one of them perished of exposure during the descent. Hundig described the likeliest access routes in detail and wondered who among Vra-Bramlow’s friends would be lunatic enough to attempt such a useless feat.
No one, the royal novice had reassured his former classmate. No one at all. The inquiry was only intended to settle a bet made with his twin brothers.
The next morning, as the princes and their companions broke their fast in the fishing lodge’s hall, Bramlow quietly told Orrion and Corodon about a certain ancient tract he had recently come upon in the abbey library. It contained convincing accounts of miracles worked atop Demon Seat in days long gone by. Why shouldn’t Orrion seek a miracle of his own on the mysterious mountain?
‘I know the possibility’s a slim one,’ the novice alchymist admitted, ‘but the manuscript said that the demons grant favors to petitioners who are worthy – and who is worthier than you, Orry? One day you must take up leadership of the Sovereignty, the heaviest burden in all of Blenholme. It’s not right that you should be deprived of your one true love, merely to strengthen the weak reed of Didionite loyalty.’
Corodon smirked. ‘What a pity King Somarus rejected my hand for his daughter in place of Orry’s. I’m so much better looking!’
‘But you aren’t the Prince Heritor.’ Bramlow’s dark brown eyes flashed with anger. This was no matter for levity.
‘I can’t see how magic could change the mind of Somarus,’ Orrion said, looking dejected. ‘Not with that villain of a chancellor making decisions for him. I suspect Kilian Blackhorse was the one who thought up the marriage ploy in the first place. God knows what sort of convoluted plan that traitor has in mind for me and Princess Hyndry, but his malice toward Cathra has never flagged.’
‘If I wore Father’s Iron Crown,’ Corodon said, ‘I’d put down Kilian like a mad dog! Then I’d depose that insolent fat rogue Somarus and replace him with a less surly kinglet.’
‘Easier said than done,’ Orrion said. ‘Didion is a patchwork realm – a rabble of mistrustful barbarian chieftains, clannish timber-lords, and greedy shipbuilding magnates and merchants who control the true wealth of the land. At present, none save Somarus seems able to keep the lot stitched together. Should Didion fall apart and be unable or unwilling to continue helping Cathra and Tarn fight the Salka, then all of Blenholme is likely doomed. If my marriage to Princess Hyndry can keep King Somarus loyal to the Sovereignty, then I have no choice but to submit. I thank you for proposing that I seek a miracle, Bram, but the notion is too outlandish to take seriously.’
‘Orry, don’t be such a lily-liver!’ Prince Corodon exclaimed. ‘Is your love for Nyla so tepid and gutless that you’d renounce her without a fight? I’d move heaven and earth if I were in your shoes, even though the odds for success were long. Listen: Bram and I will climb the peak with you. It’ll be a rare adventure!’
‘Our Heart Companions will think we’ve lost our minds,’ Orrion protested, nodding toward the long table where the young noblemen were chattering noisily. ‘And what if they gossip, and Father finds out how I tried to flout his command by calling upon demons?’
‘We could let the men accompany us for part of the way, to the base of the mountain,’ Bramlow said. ‘Then the three of us can try for the summit together. We say nothing of our true intent. Instead we tell them we intend to plant the flag of the Sovereignty up there on a tall staff, where anyone with a good spyglass may see it and be astounded. It’s a silly stunt, but we could say it was Coro’s idea.’
‘Yes, blame me!’ the daredevil prince crowed. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because we might suffer injury,’ Orrion said, ‘or even fall to our deaths.’
‘My friend Vra-Hundig at Castle Vanguard told me that the trail up the mountain is not especially difficult,’ Bramlow said. ‘What usually makes the summit inacessible is the heavy snow – which has melted this year.’
Orrion could feel his opposition weakening. ‘Bram, tell me true: do you seriously believe these so-called demons might exist and be willing to help me?’
Vra-Bramlow took hold of the silver novice’s gammadion, emblem of the Zeth Order, that hung on a chain around his neck. ‘By my halidom, I do. Dearest brother, we all know other improbable myths of this island that have a basis in truth. I admit that this one strains credulity to the bursting point – but recall our dying grandsire and the oracle of Bazekoy’s Head. It seemed ludicrous that the oracle should have spoken the truth: yet it did. So what say you? Shall we dare the demons? Decide now, for it will take us at least a day to reach the mountain’s foot, and another to make the climb. We have not a moment to waste.’

And here I am, Prince Heritor Orrion thought sadly. Grasping at the most puny of straws, putting my two brothers at risk, ready to commit a horrendous sin. But I would do anything, even forfeit my life, if I might thereby wed my darling Nyla, rather than the barbarian princess chosen for me by my heartless sire –
‘Orry! We’re waiting for you. Stop gawking at the scenery and get moving!’
He felt resentment at the sound of his twin brother’s strident voice echoing among the crags. It was not Coro’s place to give orders to the Heritor. Nevertheless Orrion rose to his feet, adjusted the baldric that supported his leather fardel of food and drink, picked up his iron-shod staff, and resumed his ascent of the steep, zigzag trail.
A couple of hundred ells above him, Corodon and Vra-Bramlow stood side by side, watching the toiling figure.
‘He’s finally coming,’ the younger prince said in exasperation. ‘Too bad Orry’s legs aren’t as long as ours. The climb’s been hard on him. If nothing else, this day’s work might pare a few pounds from his belly and let him cut a better figure in his court raiment. Then we won’t have wasted our time scaling this rockpile, even if the poor wight fails to conjure his impossible miracle.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re skeptical about magic!’ Bramlow lifted a teasing eyebrow. ‘You, of all people? Orry would be disappointed to hear it.’
Corodon turned about and seized his older brother’s shoulders. ‘Bram, you promised! Never even hint of what you know about me to Orry or to any other person. If you do, I swear I’ll cut your tripes out, even though it be sacrilege to harm a Brother of Zeth!’
Chuckling, Bramlow pried the clutching fingers away easily and took tight hold of Corodon’s wrists, rendering him helpless. The brawny young alchymist used no talent in the subduing, only main strength. His features were pleasant and bland, as usual.
‘I said I’d never betray you, Coro, and I won’t. Not unless you do deliberate harm to Orrion. But your mean-spirited insults are becoming tedious.’
Corodon relaxed and gave a nervous laugh. ‘You know I was only joking. I love my twin with all my heart! But if he found me out, his bloody great sense of honor would make him spill the beans to Father. I’d have to join you as a celibate in the Order – and living such a life would kill me.’
‘It’s not so bad. We have spells to calm the urgings of the flesh.’
‘Oh, wonderful.’ Corodon rolled his eyes. ‘And many simple joys of wizardhood to take their place, no doubt! But I’d never become a mighty Doctor Arcanorum as you will. My talent is so piss-poor that the alchymists can’t even detect it. I curse the day I let slip my stupid jumping coin trick and betrayed myself to you. If you turn me in to the Order, I’d be lucky to be nominated to the Brother Caretakers! Do you want me to spend my life mopping abbey floors or raking chickenshite?’
‘Then learn to control your spiteful tongue and stop teasing Orry. You resent that he’s Prince Heritor, rather than you, and that’s only natural. But you must give him the respect he deserves. God help you if you make mock of him when we reach the summit and he conjures the demons. This is a deadly serious business to him.’
‘I know. I’ll do as you say. Only let go of me – he’s coming.’
Corodon tore loose from Bramlow’s grip. He slid a short way downslope to greet his twin heartily and offer him wine. Orrion accepted the flask and drank a little for the sake of politeness. The two of them rejoined Bramlow and stood arm in arm.
Both princes were eighteen, two years younger than the novice, short of their majority and the belt of knighthood, but old enough at last to fight at their royal father’s side, should the Army of the Sovereignty ever snap out of its indecisive funk and attack the Salka invaders. Corodon was the younger by less than an hour’s time, taller even than Conrig’s six feet and with his father’s striking good looks. He had the king’s shining wheaten hair as well, which he wore over-long, and his mother’s sapphire-bright eyes. His public demeanor was both charming and fearless, and he was well regarded by many of the important lords at court. But Prince Corodon conspicuously lacked the level-headedness of the other royal offspring, even including their solemn little sister, Princess Wylgana, at sixteen the youngest child of Conrig and Risalla and presumably the last. Corodon’s brash and often foolhardy behavior had caused certain members of the Privy Council to secretly thank heaven that he had not emerged from his mother’s womb ahead of his nonidentical twin.
No such cloud hung over Orrion, although some suspected that his eventual reign would be competent rather than outstanding. The Prince Heritor was shrewd, well-read, and only slightly pompous, a plain-featured youth of middle stature, solidly muscled rather than overweight. His newly cultivated moustache and his hair were the indeterminate pale color of dry sand, and his eyes were more grey than blue. He had long since outgrown the bodily weaknesses that had blighted his early childhood and now enjoyed good health. His fighting prowess was much less flamboyant than Corodon’s, but he wielded both the two-handed longs word and the lighter varg blade with acceptable skill – as an aspirant to Cathra’s kingship was legally obligated to do.
Vra-Bramlow said to the others, It’s time we were going. We must reach the summit within a couple of hours, or give up hope of returning to the Heart Companions before nightfall. Sleeping rough on the mountainside tonight might be very disagreeable. See those mare’s-tail clouds streaming out of the northwest? They mean that the weather could change for the worse.’
So they resumed climbing, with Bramlow taking the lead and using his windsenses to search out the best route among the confusing masses of rock. None of them had spare breath now for conversation, so each labored alone, occupied by unquiet thoughts.

There really was a Demon Seat.
Orrion had insisted that it was his right to be the first to stand on the mountaintop and Bramlow agreed, so Corodon had no choice but to give in, muttering resentfully. While the others waited below, the Prince Heritor climbed the last few ells on all fours, then pulled himself upright on a kind of broken-walled natural terrace that comprised the summit. What he found caused him to shout in astonishment. ‘Bazekoy’s Bones! I don’t believe this. Come up and see, lads!’
Bramlow and Corodon scrambled to the top and the three of them stood huddled together in the brisk wind. The nearly level area was partially covered with a thin layer of snow. The most abundant variety of rock round about them was grey granite; but there was also a sizable outcropping of nearly translucent mineral, bluish-white in color. Some large chunks of this had broken apart and fallen in a heap that bore a rough resemblance to a chair or throne.
Corodon gave a whoop of delight. Before the others could stop him, he plumped himself down on the unusual formation. ‘Futter me blind – it’s real! A Demon Seat! What say all three of us beg a miracle? I know what I’d ask: Let me be Prince Heritor in place of Orry. I’ll gladly wed Princess Hyndry. They say she’s a fine lusty wench for all that she’s a widow, and older.’
‘Coro, you prattling fool!’ The novice dragged his brother down and flung him into the snow. Corodon uttered a half-hearted curse.
Orrion helped his aggrieved twin back onto his feet. ‘Let him be, Bram. He meant nothing by it. It’s only his bit of fun.’
Vra-Bramlow knew better; but he swallowed his indignation and growing sense of unease and squinted up at the clouds. They had thickened and the sun had dropped halfway to the horizon, resembling a disk of dull white vellum against a murky background. ‘We can’t stay here long. Do you still want to do this, Orry?’
The Prince Heritor drew in a breath. ‘Yes. Tell me how.’
While Corodon crouched in a sheltered niche, munching sausage and drinking from the wine flask, Bramlow explained the simple conjuration procedure.
‘Stand by the seat and place one hand on it. Close your eyes. Try to clear your mind of all distracting thoughts. Assume an attitude of childlike humility and reverence, as a worthy petitioner of the Sky Realm should.’
Corodon gave a muffled snort of laughter.
‘Be quiet!’ Bramlow barked. ‘Another sound from you, and I’ll make you wait downslope.’
‘What then?’ Orrion demanded. ‘How shall I summon the demons? Do I simply state my wish: Let me be able to wed Lady Nyla Brackenfield?’
‘Don’t call them demons. They might be insulted. If you must address them, say Lords of the Sky. The ancient writings were unclear as to the wording of the petition. I’d say, first name yourself, then speak out your plea naturally but briefly. Avoid any tinge of fear or disrespect. These beings must decide for themselves whether you’re worthy of their miracle.’ He folded his arms about Orrion in a brief embrace. ‘Good luck, my brother.’
‘And so say I also,’ Corodon called gruffly. ‘May you receive your heart’s desire.’
Vra-Bramlow withdrew a dozen paces, dropped to his knees in the shallow snow, and bowed his head.
Orrion approached the seat as if he were a man half-asleep. A sudden gust of cold wind hit his face like a knife-cut. He removed his gloves, placed his right hand upon the irregular milky slab that formed the back of the natural throne, and closed his eyes.
‘Great Lords of the Sky!’ He spoke firmly. ‘I beseech you to grant me a favor – if it should be your will, and if you find me worthy.’
For a long time nothing happened. Then he felt a slow-growing warmth beneath the hand that rested on the frigid rock surface. One of his brothers gave a soft gasp of mingled fear and amazement. Orrion dared to crack open his eyelids for the merest instant and saw that the entire Demon Seat formation was aglow with an interior luminosity, at first dim as a will o’ the wisp, then increasingly bright. The heat beneath his right hand gradually increased. Before he could think what to do next, he felt a sudden thrust of pain smite his brain. Then there were voices speaking in unison, deep and inhuman, questioning him in an oddly hesitant manner.
Orrion knew instinctively that they spoke to his soul and were inaudible to the others.
WHO…WHAT…WHY?
He tried to keep panic from his response. ‘Great Lords of the Sky, my name is Orrion Wincantor. I’m here to beg a miracle of you, if you please. I – I ask your help because I have nowhere else to turn.’
HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT US? HOW DID YOU KNOW TO COME TO THIS PLACE?
‘My older brother read an ancient tract. It told how you had granted miracles to others many years ago.’
YES…SOME OF US FREELY GAVE BOONS TO HUMANS. WE REMEMBER NOW. WE HOPED TO GAIN AN ADVANTAGE OVER THE EVIL ONES. THOSE WERE STRANGE TIMES IN THE SKY REALM AND ON THE GROUND. THE TACTIC WAS NOT VERY SUCCESSFUL.
The demonic ramblings made no sense to Orrion. His hand, resting upon the stone, was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. ‘Do I have your gracious permission to ask my favor?’
WELL…AT LEAST YOU ARE WORTHY, AS ARE THE OTHER TWO WHO COWER NEXT TO OUR CRAG…WHAT DO YOU WANT, ORRION WINCANTOR?
‘Great Lords of the Sky, if – if you will, grant me a miracle. Let me be able to wed my true love, Nyla Brackenfield, daughter to Count Hale Brackenfield, Lord Lieutenant of the Realm.’
There was silence. His right hand grew ever more painful, but he dared not lift it. Finally the inhuman voices spoke again, seeming puzzled.
WHY DO YOU REQUIRE A MAGICAL INTERVENTION MERELY IN ORDER TO MATE WITH YOUR CHOSEN PERSON?
‘I – Great Lords, I’m the High King’s son, heir to the throne of Cathra and the Iron Crown of Sovereignty. My father Conrig has picked another wife for me, in spite of my wishes. I must obey him for the sake of my princely honor.’
The demons fell into a silence that seemed endless.
Orrion forced himself not to cry out. The burning sensation in his hand continued to grow and was fast becoming unbearable. ‘Great Lords, if my request cannot be granted, then I humbly beg your pardon for having disturbed you. My brothers and I will depart from your mountain forthwith.’
WE THINK THE REQUEST IS NOT IMPOSSIBLE. IT IS HARD FOR THE SKY REALM TO INTERACT WITH THE GROUND BECAUSE IT UPSETS THE GREAT BALANCE OF POWER, BUT WE ARE WILLING TO HELP YOU. YOU WILL PAY A GREAT PRICE FOR THIS FAVOR. ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT YOU WANT IT?
‘Yes. Please.’
THEN LIFT YOUR RIGHT HAND FROM THE MOON CRAG AND HOLD IT ALOFT.
For a moment, Orrion didn’t understand. Then he realized he was being told to let go of that awful piece of hot rock. ‘Yes! Oh, thank you!’ In a paroxysm of gratitude, he thrust his arm heavenward and dared to open his eyes.
He saw blackness around him, and abundant diamond-sharp twinkling stars, as though night had inexplicably fallen and he hung suspended in the heavens high above the earth. A formless drift of multi-hued Light, that slowly took the shape of many mournful faces, shone among the familiar polar constellations. Then a blue flare blinded him as it engulfed most of his uplifted arm like a blast of silent lightning.
He fell from the sky into nothingness, feeling no pain.

‘Orry! Orry, my poor twin, are you alive?’
‘He breathes. I can feel his heart beating. Draw closer to shield him from the elements.’
Slowly, Orrion Wincantor, Prince Heritor of Cathra, opened his eyes. A folded cloak pillowed his head and another covered his body. He was chilled but not otherwise uncomfortable. A cold drizzle was falling. His brothers knelt beside him.
‘Take a sip of this brandy,’ Vra-Bramlow urged, lifting him so he could drink. The fiery spirit burnt his gullet, then settled in a glowing pool in his belly. ‘Can you move?’
‘Yes. Help me to sit up.’
They assisted him. Orrion looked about and realized that they were still at the summit of Demon Seat and it was yet daytime – although the louring grey clouds now hung so close it seemed a man might reach up and touch them. Corodon was strangely excited, while Bramlow’s face was stiff with shock and his eyes red from weeping.
Orrion managed a reassuring smile. ‘Have I been senseless long?’
‘Perhaps half an hour,’ Bramlow said. ‘We – we were very worried about you. The change in weather came very quickly. It might snow. We were wondering how to carry you to a more sheltered place when you finally came to yourself – thanks be to God!’
‘Well, I’m quite all right,’ Orrion said. ‘It seems I’ve survived my encounter with the demons.’
‘What were they like?’ Corodon asked eagerly. ‘We saw nothing of them, only a sudden dazzling light, and then you were lying on the rocks.’
‘After I begged my boon, I found myself afloat in a dark sky. I saw a multitude of ghostly faces glowing among the stars –’
‘Zeth save us!’ Bramlow exclaimed. But he bit off the words he would have said next, not wanting Orrion to know that he’d very likely conjured the evil Beaconfolk, and said only, ‘Were they fearsome things?’
‘Not really. They seemed almost bewildered that a human being would call upon them. But I stated my request boldly, as you advised, and they asked if I was sure I wanted it. I said I did. There was a great flash of blueish light, brighter than the sun, and I remember nothing more.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose there’s naught left to do but wait to see if my miracle will be granted. Just help me to my feet, lads. We should get going.’
‘Are you in pain, my brother?’ Corodon asked.
‘Not at all. I feel healthy as a horse.’
‘Orrion –’ Fresh tears sprang into Bramlow’s dark eyes and he gave a wordless cry before turning his head away, unable to speak further.
‘What’s wrong?’ the Prince Heritor said in alarm.
His twin regarded him with a strange expression. ‘Brother, your miracle has already occurred, but not in the manner that you might have wished.’ Slowly, he pulled open the blanketing cloak so that Orrion’s body was exposed.
The Heritor looked down at himself and felt his heart lurch.
Impossible! There was no pain – indeed, he felt as though nothing at all had happened. The sleeve of his heavy leather jerkin and the woolen shirt beneath had been burnt away to a point just below the right elbow; his lower arm and hand felt as normal as always…but they had apparently been rendered invisible. When his left hand probed the anomaly he felt a smooth stump of healed flesh and bone at the end of his truncated right arm.
‘Gone,’ he murmured, transfixed. ‘Yet it seems as though it’s still there. I’ve heard of men losing a limb in battle expe-riencing a like phenomenon. Odd, isn’t it, lads?’
‘His mind wanders,’ Corodon said. ‘Poor devil.’
‘Don’t you understand what the cursèd demons have done to you?’ Bramlow cried in a voice choked with horror. ‘They have taken your sword-arm, Orry! By the laws of our kingdom – and Didion as well – such a wound makes you ineligible for the throne.’
‘You’re no longer Prince Heritor, twin brother.’ Corodon’s face was suffused with a terrible exultation. ‘I am.’ His gaze flickered and he looked sidelong at Bramlow. ‘Not our royal father, nor King Somarus, nor anyone else can deny me. Isn’t that right, Bram?’
The novice said nothing.
Corodon turned back to Orrion. ‘You and Nyla are free to wed. I offer my heartfelt felicitations and wish you every happiness.’ He paused with a judicious frown. ‘It would be best, I think, if we explained matters to Father and King Somarus face to face, rather than breaking the news at long distance. What do you think, Bram?’
The reply was curt. ‘I dare not windspeak such incredible tidings. No one would believe me.’
On one level of his mind, Orrion felt an eerie detachment, as though he were watching some fantastic drama enacted by the palace players that had nothing to do with reality. On another level he was coolly rational. The ramifications of the demons’ action were clear and irrefutable, just as Coro had said. There could be no waffling on King Conrig’s part, no talk of Orrion learning lefthanded swordplay to evade the restriction.
Corodon must be named Heritor.
Coro? Impetuous, happy-go-lucky Coro become heir to the throne? The notion had never occurred to Orrion. The miracle he’d hoped for would have simply changed his father’s mind, so that he might marry Nyla and in time make her his queen. But now…
Vra-Bramlow stood close to him. ‘I shall never forgive myself for this, Orry,’ the novice muttered. ‘Never.’ And he thought: What am I to do? If I tell Father the truth about Coro’s talent, the crown will pass out of the Wincantor family – to Beorbrook’s adopted son Dyfrig, or even to our wicked cousin Feribor Blackhorse!
Orrion climbed slowly to his feet. His expression was still strange, even though his voice sounded calm. ‘I was willing to pay any price for my sweet love. I’ve paid, and I shall accept whatever penalty Father metes out to me – even banishment. All the blame is mine, Bram. You have nothing to reproach yourself for.’
Vra-Bramlow shook his head. ‘Not true,’ he whispered, but could say no more.
‘We can never tell Father the exact truth of this affair,’ Orrion said. He was staring into the distance, as if contemplating some faraway event. ‘He’s a hard man, and I’ll not have him revenge himself on either one of you. We three must agree on a suitable fiction to explain my loss, and we must swear never to deviate from it.’
‘Of course,’ Corodon exclaimed warmly. ‘Bram’s the cleverest. He’ll think up a proper yarn for us to spin. And let’s not forget to plant the banner before we leave, as we planned to do.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Coro,’ Bramlow groaned.
‘I’ll do it for luck, if for no other reason.’ Corodon opened his pack, shook out the scarlet silk pennon of the Sovereignty with its four interlocked golden crowns (Conrig still claimed the overlordship of Moss, even though the Salka had conquered it), and began tying it to his own climbing staff. Bramlow and Orrion watched as he built a cairn of rocks behind Demon Seat and set about fixing the royal banner atop it.
Orrion spoke quietly to Bramlow. ‘Can you bespeak a message to the Zeth Brethren in Cala Palace for me, or are we too far away?’
‘At this great height, I should be able to do it. No natural barriers impede my windspeech. What do you want me to say?’
‘The message is to be given to Lady Nyla. In my name, beseech her to hasten to Boarsden with all speed and meet me there, for the sake of our love. Ask that she also bring her parents, and that they travel with the greatest possible secrecy.’
The novice frowned. ‘Orry, are you sure about this?’
‘She and I must be near one another as I confess my transgression to Father. If he spares my life, I mean to wed Nyla immediately. This is why she must bring her parents.’
Deeply troubled, Vra-Bramlow said, ‘It might be better if we first meet Nyla and the Lord Lieutenant and his lady elsewhere than Boarsden Castle, so you have an opportunity to…prepare them beforehand.’
‘You’re right. Perhaps near the border, at Beorbrook Hold in Cathra?’
Bramlow shook his head. ‘You’d never be able to conceal your disability from the earl marshal’s alchymists. They’d insist on examining the arm if we try to pass it off as a climbing injury that I’d already treated and bound up. We’ll be able to fend off your Heart Companions that way, but not real physicians…I have it – we’ll meet the Brackenfields at the Castlemont Fortress hostelry just across the pass in Didion. No one there will think it amiss if Cathran travelers keep to themselves. And it’s only a day’s ride from the fort to Boarsden.’
‘Very well. Bespeak the message, Bram, before Coro finishes.’
A few minutes later, Prince Corodon climbed down from the moonstone outcropping, took his twin’s good left arm, and draped it over one of his shoulders. ‘That’s done. If any windsearcher should scry the mountaintop, the banner will confirm that we were here. Now lean on me, Orry, and we’ll start down.’ He offered a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t be downhearted. Everything will work out for the best. This happenstance is strange beyond measure, but we can’t deny that it gives both of us our heart’s desire!’

She had obtained a sheet of vellum scraped so thin it was nearly transparent, that might be folded into the most exiguous of hiding places and kept safe. From the desk drawer she took a silver inkwell and a crow-quill pen with a fine nib, so that her writing might be minuscule and take up the least possible room, yet still be be legible. These things she laid out just before midnight, after long hesitation deciding that the time had finally come.
It was the most important letter she would ever write. If it were intercepted, it would surely be her heart’s death, though no man laid a hand on her. But if it reached its intended recipient, all her years of suffering would have been well spent.

My dearest Dyfrig!
This missive comes to you after what must have been a perilous journey, undertaken by my most faithful friend. I pray you to reward her and shield her from the retribution that would fall upon her if her rôle in carrying the letter to you were discovered by the Sovereign or his agents.
The one who writes to you is your mother, Maudrayne Northkeep, once wife to Conrig Wincantor and former Queen of Cathra.
I know you thought me dead, and there were many times when I despaired of my life’s continuing, so bleak has been my existence, deprived of pouring upon you the maternal love you deserve. How I longed to see and know you, to watch you grow and thrive, to share your joys and comfort your hurts as a natural mother should! My only solace was knowing that you had been given into the care of good people, and this enabled me to hold fast in spite of all hardship.
I could not write to you earlier, whilst you were still a child. It was necessary to delay until you were an adult man grown, strong in health and mature in mind and character, able to understand and make wise use of the secrets I now entrust to you.
I am informed that you have achieved your twentieth year and a man’s estate, and have earned knighthood, and are esteemed by your adoptive parents and all who are close to you. It is time for you to know the truth about your heritage and decide how it may shape your destiny in years to come.
You are indeed the legitimate first-born son of Conrig Wincantor, Sovereign of Blenholme, by virtue of Cathran law. I was ever faithful to my royal husband, even though he betrayed me with another woman and has encouraged rumors vilifying my honor. He did not know that I carried his child when he divorced me for expedient reasons of state. My heart was so wrung with anger and grief at his earlier betrayal of me with Conjure-Queen Ullanoth and his subsequent willingness to set me aside so he could marry the Didionite princess that I withheld information of my pregnancy from him. Sinfully, I attempted to end both my life and your own by casting myself into the sea.
When my friend, the Grand Shaman Ansel Pikan, rescued me and took me away to Tarn, I was at first grateful. You were born in the isolated steading of a sea-hag called Dobnelu, whom you perhaps remember kindly. She and Ansel were both servants of a supernatural being called the Source of the Old Conflict or the One Denied the Sky. It was some years before I discovered that the loyalty of these so-called friends was first to this inhuman creature and only second to you and me.
High King Conrig learned of my survival and of your own existence. He sought to kill us because of the threat we posed to his heirs by Risalla of Didion – and for another reason, which I shall disclose to you anon. But the assassin he sent, one Deveron Austrey, who was the Royal Intelligencer, proved too virtuous and compassionate a man to do the king’s bloody work. Instead he engineered what he thought would be a compromise that would save both our lives. I was to live quietly in Tarn, and you would be adopted by Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook as a putative royal bastard of mine. The king accepted, then broke this agreement, secretly sending Tinnis Catclaw, Constable of the Realm, to kill me with poison and feign my suicide.
This Lord Tinnis, for a mercy, was one who had long loved me hopelessly from afar. After I pledged to keep silent and remain his secret captive and leman so long as I would live, he falsified my death. I was transported to a hunting lodge of his called Gentian Fell, situated high in the Dextral Mountains, some thirty leagues east of Beorbrook Hold. Here I have abided anonymously for sixteen years, together with my dear friend Rusgann Moorcock, who was once my personal maidservant. She will, I pray the God of the Heights and Depths, place this letter in your hand.
Make no mistake: Tinnis has been as devoted and lavish a captor as any poor prisoner could hope for. My quarters are elegant and comfortable, for all that they are in a remote place. I have the best food and drink, books and music. During the calm moons of summer and autumn, before winter snows close the mountain tracks for weeks at a time, a few trusted female relatives of the Lord Constable visit me with their young children and vouchsafe the mysterious ‘Lady Mayda’ diversion and educated companionship. Under guard, I am allowed to walk the alpine meadows and even go a-hawking, a diversion close to my heart.
I freely confess that four or five times a year, for short periods, Tinnis Catclaw himself is here in residence and shares my bed. He is a kindly man in his way, ever gentle with me, and I have a lonely woman’s needs which you, my dear son, will one day understand and forgive. I thus fulfill my part of the pact I made with Lord Tinnis in exchange for my life.
The Salka invasion in Didion has made it impossible for him to make his customary visits this summer, since he must attend the ongoing Council of War at Boarsden. The consequent lapse of discipline among my guards here emboldened me to contrive a plan for Rusgann’s escape and, I pray, her transport of this letter to you. She will first seek you in Beorbrook Hold amongst your foster family, where I pray she may find you, since the journey is not long. If you are not there she will proceed to Boarsden Castle.
Now I will attempt to explain the darker reasons for Conrig’s enmity towards you and me.
Dyfrig, my son, we live in a world awash with sorcery. High Blenholme Island is no mundane human habitat as is the Southern Continent. Before Emperor Bazekoy dared to subdue it, this land was a domain of inhuman entities that fought viciously amongst themselves, using every manner of magic. The most abundant race, the Salka monsters, were linked in an unholy symbiosis with the Beaconfolk, those Great Lights of the Sky Realm, who channeled uncanny power to the ferocious amphibians through moonstone amulets.
After Bazekoy’s conquest and banishment of the Salka, which I have been told was accomplished while the Beaconfolk were distracted by quarreling amongst themselves, certain human settlers dared to mate with the Green Men of Blenholme, a race of very small nonhuman people, secretive and dangerous, who have large emerald eyes but otherwise resemble us closely. Like the other prehistoric island dwellers, the Green Ones possess inborn magical abilities. These they pass on to their parthuman descendants, even through many generations.
I do not have to explain to you the longstanding Cathran mistrust of magical ‘talent’. It dates to Bazekoy’s day and reflects his justified fear and antipathy toward the Beaconfolk sorcery used by the Salka as a weapon. The Didionites share a similar ambivalent attitude toward magickers, but the other two human nations of Blenholme are more broad-minded. In Tarn, the talented shaman-healers opted to focus their uncanny powers on activities that were mostly worthy and helpful. The land of Moss was a more sinister kettle of fish – a hotbed of malicious wizards who oppressed their untalented human fellows mercilessly until the celebrated Rothbannon whipped them into line and established the Conjure-Kingdom.
Moss retained a sizable population of Salka who largely shunned mankind. Rothbannon chose to live peaceably with the monsters rather than oppress them. He even became friendly with the Salka of the Dawntide Isles. After a time, the creatures so trusted this stern but scrupulously fair human ruler that they unwisely handed over to him their most cherished relics – a set of inactive moonstone amulets or sigils that became known as the Seven Stones of Rothbannon. These things were nothing less than physical channels of Beaconfolk sorcery. They gave tremendous power to the human user at the price of pain – and sometimes his very soul.
I do not have to reiterate the depressing history of Rothbannon’s descendants. They lacked his prudence and wielded the sigils in ways that often called down the wrath of the Lights. Your natural father’s paramour, Conjure-Queen Ullanoth, used moonstones to aid the establishment of the Sovereignty and further her own lust. The accusations made by Didion and by Cathra’s Lords of the South against Conrig and Ullanoth are shamefully true: the union of High Blenholme was built upon a foundation of unholy magic and adultery.
This was made possible by the fact that Conrig himself has inherited a small and nearly indetectable portion of magical talent, which gave him a fatal affinity with the beautiful Mossland witch. Even more dire, Conrig holds his Iron Crown under false pretenses: by law, no talented man may be Cathra’s king.
You, my dearest son, have no stain of talent whatsoever. I was assured of this by both Ansel Pikan and the sea-hag Dobnelu. Thus you are the rightful Sovereign of Blenholme, and no one – human or inhuman – may deny you’ your heritage…if you should choose to take it up.
There is one credible witness who may attest to your freedom from talent and to Conrig’s attainting. He is the same Deveron Austrey who resigned from his post as Royal Intelligencer after his conscience was sickened by Conrig’s treatment of me. I am told that he was convicted of treason but escaped to the Continent, where he has lived in obscurity for long years. Whether you seek him out and use his testimony to your advantage is up to you.
My beloved child, your future is in your own hands. If some day you ascend to the throne of Cathra and I still live, I hope we may be united on this earth. If this is not to be, I look forward to our eventual reunion in paradise and assure you of my prayers.
I am your mother,
MAUDRAYNE, Princess Dowager of Cathra

She sanded the parchment, took scissors and trimmed the sheet to its smallest possible compass, folded it, and sealed it with three tiny drops of unstamped wax. It was now a thing scarcely an inch square.
From her jewel case, filled with valuable baubles bestowed upon her by Tinnis Catclaw, she took a flat golden locket just large enough to contain the letter. Her desk yielded a small tin of cement, a sticky substance that dried hard and waterproof, used by the lodge’s guards to refasten loose fletching on their arrows. She had begged it from one of the kinder men, saying she wished to use it in binding a book. But instead, she carefully daubed a thin line of the black stuff around the edge of the locket, sealing it shut. No harm would come to the letter now, no matter how wet its messenger became.
Rusgann would decide where to hide the locket on her person when they met at breakfast and completed plans for the escape.
Maudrayne snuffed the candle on the desk and slowly rose. The only light now came from a low-burning oil lamp on a night-table beside her tester bed. Outside, the wind moaned and sleet rattled faintly against the heavily shuttered windows.
She began to disrobe for bed, standing before a long pier glass. The doughty noblewomen of Tarn scorned the hovering bodyservants of more effete southern ladies, and she was accustomed to deal with her own garments and hairdressing except when some special occasion necessitated elaborate attire.
She was two-score-and-four years of age, tall but fine-boned, and of unusual strength thanks to her love of walking, riding, and bow-hunting. The skin of her face was still creamy, unlined save for a faint crease between her brows. This imperfection, together with her dark-circled green eyes, like forest pools forever shaded from sunlight, were permanent legacies of her suffering.
She unfastened her opal necklace and golden plait-clasps and put them on the dressing table, then doffed the myrtle-green wool surcoat and girdled gown of apricot silk, arranging them neatly upon wooden perches. After removing low-cut houseshoes and gartered stockings, she let slip to the floor her sleeveless linen underkirtle and drawers and stood naked before the mirror, unbraiding her abundant copper tresses. Her breasts were still high and firm and her belly was unmarked by the stress of childbearing. Her shield of womanhood was as blazing bright as the hair of her head.
‘You are still comely, Maude,’ she whispered, gazing upon herself for a long moment before the reflection was blurred by an upwelling of tears as sharp as acid. ‘Your besotted gaoler adores you and showers you with every gift save liberty. So why does the memory of him, and him alone, still heat your blood, even though you try to crush and deny it? Is there no way your heart will ever escape his thrall?’
She went to the bed, drew up the covers, and pinched the lamp’s wick with moistened fingers. In the darkness, warm beneath a swansdown comforter, she found no comfort.
She thought: The letter will bring an end to it. Surely it will! I’ll be rid of this perfidious bond, this shameful yearning that should be revulsion, this love for him that should be hatred. It’ll be over. Dear God, let me forget Conrig and be at peace…else I’ll have to go to him.
And do what I must do.

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