by Julian May
“But I didn’t know!” His whisper was desperate. “Not until—” “Until I came,” she said, unaware of the real state of things and knowing nothing of Snudge. “And I showed you how the audacious dream of your youth might be fulfilled. You listened well to my secret counsel, and your scheme prevailed. The Edict of Sovereignty was proclaimed. That its fulfillment was cruelly bungled by imbeciles was only a temporary setback. With my aid you shall set all to rights. And in the end who will care that you possess a small portion of the talent, or that a few necessary falsehoods were told in your great endeavor’s fulfilling?”
He could think of no way to counter what she had said. Gossy would understand. He must understand…
“Very well. Leave me, then, lady. Be assured I’ll do what is best.” Again she touched his cheek, smiling, then vanished. The scent of vetiver remained, sweet and woodsy.
Prey to unspeakable thoughts concerning his beloved brother, he crept back to the balustrade and looked down blindly on the hall for a few minutes more, until Tanaby Vanguard announced to the nobles at the high table that it was time to go to the solar and begin their conclave.
Chapter Two
They entered in an untidy crowd, the Virago and seven other great barons, three viscounts, three counts, and Parlian Beorbrook, the kingdom’s chief military officer, all of them caring nothing for the niceties of precedence as was the way of easygoing northerners. Last came the host of the clandestine gathering, who slammed the tall double doors firmly behind him and shot its twin bolts into place.
“His Grace will join us in a moment,” Tanaby Vanguard said, nodding towards another closed door that gave onto the inner chamber. He wore a simple houserobe of russet velvet, a thin man with finely drawn, unreadable features, whose nose jutted like an axe-blade. Chestnut hair thickly streaked with grey fell to his shoulders. Unlike most of the other men, he was clean-shaven.
Beorbrook spotted the table of drinks by the window and strode to it purposefully, hauling his dented old silver cup out of his belt-wallet. “Is that a Snapevale Stillery flagon that I spy?”
“Leave be for a moment, Parli,” said Tanaby, “until the Prince Heritor arrives.”
“How sober do we have to be for this bloody mystery confab anyhow?” the earl marshal muttered. He was a hale man in early middle age, broad rather than tall, with muscular legs grown bandy from horseback riding, and enormous gnarled hands. Blue eyes cold as an Ice Moon sky were sunk deep beneath shaggy black brows. His beard was also black, although his hair had gone snow-white. He wore a doublet of dark blue leather, intricately worked, having stiff sleeve-wings that emphasized his extraordinary shoulders. His chain of office was conspicuously absent.
“You must decide the need for a clear head yourself,” Tanaby told his longtime friend. “As for blood, there may be quantities of it in the offing if we here decide so.”
The marshal gave a grunt, and some of the others exchanged wary glances or small grim smiles. Except for Vanguard, none of those present were intimates of the prince. They knew only that he favored some sort of retaliatory strike against Didion, and as Lord Constable of the Realm had the power to lead one even if the Privy Council balked—provided that the king himself did not expressly forbid it. Tanaby’s carefully worded messages bringing these northern nobles to a secret meeting had sparked battle-fever in some and skepticism in others, but all had agreed to listen to the prince and decide whether or not to support him in the undertaking.
A fire burned in the broad greystone hearth, before which were sixteen common stools, arranged in a semicircle. In the middle was a single collapsible field-chair fashioned of carved walnut and faded brocade, fronted by a small table. All of the usual furnishings of the solar, save for the sideboard with the liquor, had been removed.
“I realize we aren’t here for a cozy chat, my lord duke,” drawled Lady Zeandrise, eyeing the comfortless seats. She still had spurs on her booted feet. “But is it necessary for us to perch like a gang of tomtits on fenceposts during this conference?”
There were a few chuckles. Tanaby said, “The unusual arrangement, dear Zea, was meant to evoke the lack of coziness we may expect to experience if we agree to participate in the prince’s venture.”
“I see.” The baroness kept a straight face. “Well, it’s been a dull year in Marley. The harvest’s safely in and ample enough in spite of the Wolf’s Breath, and my knights and thanes are restless and in need of distraction.” She glanced out the window at the spectacular sky. “A pity we only get these magnificent sunsets when the volcanos belch.”
Old Baron Toborgil Silverside said, “King Achardus of Didion and his starving people must take faint comfort in such beauty.”
“Famine smite the lot of them dead,” growled Beorbrook, “and may a hundred thousand vultures shite their bones!”
“And so let it be forever,” Count Ramscrest added, in a voice hard as granite.
A respectful silence fell over the group, for everyone knew that the marshal’s two elder sons and Ramscrest’s youngest brother had been in the ill-fated royal delegation presenting the Edict of Sovereignty to the King of Didion. Ramscrest’s brother had left a widow and three small children. As for Beorbrook, only his third son, Count Olvan Elktor, untried in battle at twenty-one and thick as two oaken planks, was now left to inherit the most strategically important duchy in all of Cathra. There was small hope that Olvan would ever fill his father’s boots as earl marshal, and it seemed likely that the office and its great perquisites would pass out of the Beorbrook family with Parlian’s demise.
All at once the door of the inner chamber was kicked open with a sharp rap and Conrig appeared. The Prince Heritor was dressed all in black, as was his custom, and his wheaten hair and short beard looked almost coppery in the ruddy light, a strange contrast to his dark brown eyes. He had two magnums of wine tucked under each arm and a corkscrew dangling from his right hand.
“Good evening to you all, my friends, and thank you for coming. Be at ease, and let there be no idle ceremony.” When they continued to stand motionless and uncertain, he said to Vanguard, “Godfather, help me cope with these bottles, which I brought specially from Brent Lodge for this gathering. It’s a brisk new Stippenese vintage from the Niss Valley that will quench our thirst without dulling our wits. Time enough for ardent spirits after you’ve all listened to my proposal and made up your minds about it.”
They relaxed then, and there were low-pitched words of greeting to Conrig from the older nobles and diffident nods from the young ones. Cups were drawn from velvet or leather pouches and held out for filling by the prince himself, who called each person by name and made casual talk. Lady Zeandrise had her weathered hand kissed by the royal winebearer and pursed her lips tightly to forestall a smile.
Finally Conrig poured into Tanaby’s own simple beaker of waxed honey-wood and let the duke do the honors for him. The prince’s silver cup was lined with gold; a great amethyst formed part of the stem, a talisman against drunkenness… and poison.
“A toast,” he said quietly, lifting his drink. “To the good sense of those here present, which must determine whether the plan I propose will be acceptable or die aborning.”
“To good sense,” Tanaby echoed, “but also to daring.” He had already been taken into Conrig’s confidence and knew some details of the scheme, but had withheld judgment of its merit pending this consultation with the others.
They took their seats in a poorly concealed aura of excitement, with the Prince Heritor seated on the folding chair and the others spread out on either side. Young Baron Kimbolton put more wood on the fire. The sunset was rapidly fading.
“Do you like the wine?” Conrig inquired pleasantly.
Most voiced their approval. Count Munlow Ramscrest grimaced and shifted his great bulk so that his stool creaked ominously. His oversized mantle, trimmed with black wolf fur, spread around him like a sledge robe. “I would as lief take honest Cathran mead any day over foreign grape-gargle. St
ill, it does cut the phlegm.”
The others roared with laughter.
But then bluff Ramscrest asked the prince flat out, “Your Grace, does this plan of yours involve mere punitive strikes against Didion, or would you wage open warfare?”
“I intend to mount an invasion,” the prince replied, “and seize Holt Mallburn, and force Achardus to accept the Edict of Sovereignty or have it stuffed down his gullet.”
Ramscrest’s face, as homely and full of bristles as that of a boar, broke into a beatific smile. He said, “Oh, yes. Yes indeed!”
Some of the others began to exclaim and call out questions, but the penetrating voice of Parlian Beorbrook cut through the clamor like a brazen trumpet. “And what does the King’s Grace think of this brave notion?”
They all fell silent.
The prince set his cup on the small table before him, rose, and began to pace slowly back and forth in front of the fire. He was five-and-twenty years of age, over six feet tall, well-built, and fine of feature as his father, King Olmigon, had been in his youth; but no one in the room would dispute that Conrig Wincantor far surpassed his sire both in strength of character and in mental acuity. In recent years the king had become capricious and vacillating, prone to following dubious advice from certain favored members of his Privy Council, and shunting important matters aside while he dithered over some triviality.
Olmigon had agreed to Conrig’s Edict of Sovereignty proposal only after months of dispute. It was the king who had made the disastrous decision that the royal delegation bearing the Edict to the court of Didion should be small and accompanied only by a token force of warriors; and it was the king, a fine naval tactician in his prime, who had decided that Cathra’s response to the delegation’s slaughter should be a sea blockade rather than a land invasion of the northern kingdom.
Conrig said, “Before answering that question, Earl Marshal, I must impart to you melancholy tidings. Since you’ve been busy for the past months keeping Great Pass secure from bandits and Didionite incursions, you may not know that King Olmigon has lately experienced a worsening of that abdominal rupture which has so long afflicted him. The royal alchymists are zealously applying both natural science and sorcery, but the latterday weight-gain of my father makes treatment more difficult than in past years.” He took a poker and pulled the smoldering logs together so that they might burn better. “King Olmigon is in great pain much of the time. He continues to conduct important state business from his bed, however, refusing medicine that he fears might dull his mind, even as the suffering itself prevents him from straight thinking. Queen Cataldise is at his side day and night.”
Dying! They all had the identical thought.
The prince turned about and let his eyes rove slowly over those seated. “However, my lady Maudrayne has sent to Tarn for a healer of special talent, and if God wills, the King’s Grace will be restored to health. I command you not to broadcast tidings of his sad disability beyond this room. Only keep him in your prayers.”
And remember who it is that will succeed to the throne of Cathra when Olmigon does sing his Deathsong.
Nods and murmurs.
“It was my personal decision,” Conrig continued, “as well as that of a certain other high-ranking member of the Privy Council, not to trouble the king with this new matter until I have consulted with you all and determined whether or not the invasion proposal is practicable. As Lord Constable of the Realm, acting with the covert approval of Chancellor Falmire, who is the only one of my father’s advisers with the brains to understand the situation, I have the power to summon this extraordinary council of war. The persons I chose to invite are those in a unique position to render service to Cathra—to redress the atrocious insult done to our kingdom by Didion, and assure the security of the entire island.”
Whisperings. None of them were fools. Unlike the intrepid northerners, who had always borne the brunt of defending Cathra’s border, the lords of the south had grown complacent and soft from long years of martial inactivity. They were businessmen, tending to their varied commercial ventures, not fighters. With the coming of the Wolf’s Breath, worried by the decline in their private fortunes and too shortsighted to understand the potential danger from the Continent, the southerners were in no mood to spend money re-equipping and training their knights and thanes as an invasion host.
“As you all know,” Conrig continued, after a pause, “the impetus for the Edict of Sovereignty came originally from me. From my youth I have idolized Emperor Bazekoy the Great, who unified the nations of the mainland, brought civilization to our own island, and chose to die here for love of it. It has long been my dream to bring all of Blenholme together and return it to the glory of Bazekoy’s time.”
“The Emperor,” Munlow Ramscrest grumbled, “has been dead for over a thousand years… most of him, at any rate! And the Blenholme of his day no more resembles our own than children’s fables resemble the sacred Chronicle.”
“Count Ramscrest speaks the unwelcome truth, as usual,” the prince conceded, to universal amusement. “Our world is more densely populated and our politics more complex. Nevertheless, even the marble-domes on my father’s Privy Council eventually agreed that the time was ripe for a move to Sovereignty. Three years of the Wolf’s Breath have brought tragedy to Blenholme—but also an unprecedented opportunity. Didion is at the brink of civil war. The gold-coffers of the Sealords of Tarn are near empty with the closing of the mines. Even in Moss—”
“Who cares about Moss?” Baron Wanstantil Cloudfell sneered. He was a haughty beanpole who dressed with great elegance and affected a foppish manner. “Let the Conjure-King use sorcery to make the sun shine on his stinking swamps, and may he have much joy in the fulfillment. My prince, don’t tell me you’d bother taking that soggy nest of magical mountebanks into the Sovereignty!”
“As it happens, Lord Cloudfell, the kingdom of Moss would play a crucial role in unifying Blenholme.”
“The hell you say!” Beorbrook exclaimed. “Does this scheme of yours depend on vile Mossback enchantments, then?”
The prince fixed the earl marshal with a level look, saying nothing, until the veteran general looked away, his jaw clenched and his brow like thunder.
“Hear His Grace out, Parli,” urged Vanguard. “It’s true there are arcane elements in his plan, but no invoking of the Beaconfolk or anything else an honest warrior could scruple at. Carry on, Godson.”
“Very well,” said the prince. “As you know, the three Wolf’s Breath years have by no means left our own land of Cathra untouched. Our fields have produced significantly less grain. Our exports to Tarn, our favored—and wealthy—trading partner, left almost nothing for Didion. That nation has been forced to import foodstuffs from the Continent.”
“And the required coin of payment,” said Count Norval Swanwick impatiently, “is Didionite warships. Yes, yes, and all of us know what use Foraile and Stippen might make of them. Your Grace isn’t the only prince harking back to Bazekoy’s days of glorious conquest. The emperor was, after all, a Forailian by birth.”
“It was to squelch such harkings,” Conrig said, “that I pressed for the Edict of Sovereignty.” And he quoted from memory. “ ‘For the benefit and security of all Blenholme, and to thwart those Continental opportunists who might think to take advantage of the current natural disaster afflicting our island, the Kingdom of Blencathra extends its merciful hand to the suffering people of its neighbor, Blendidion, and vouchsafes it prompt paternal succor and relief, as Blendidion acknowledges vassalage in the new, benevolent Sovereignty of High Blenholme, and accepts Olmigon Wincantor as its Liege Lord.’”
“But they didn’t, did they?” Viscount Skellhaven pointed out, with sour satisfaction. “Not without a Cathran army and a train of grain wagons coming at them over Great Pass along with your precious Edict.”
Even though he had ridden into Castle Vanguard on horseback like all the others, he wore salt-stained seaboots, the wide pantaloons favored by
sailors, and a silk scarf tying back his long hair. His attire was of good quality but shabby, as if to reinforce his perennial pose of being ill-used and unappreciated by the Crown.
Beorbrook said, “We all know how the King of Didion responded to Cathra’s declaration of Sovereignty. He killed our people and stuck their heads on pikes above Mallmouth Bridge for the crows and seagulls to eat, and fed their poor bodies to the crabs.” The earl marshal tossed off the remainder of his wine, and his son Olvan hastened to bring more, then served the few others who lifted their cups with all that was left in the last bottle.
“It was six months ago that my sons and the others died,” Beorbrook went on. “The Crown’s blockade of Didion isn’t working—no offense, Skellhaven!— because there’s too much water to cover and the bastards are better sailors than we are. Now that Achardus knows for sure we’re out to topple him, you can be sure that he’ll be on the lookout for a land invasion as well. I can assure Your Grace that the Didionite mountain fortresses beyond Great Pass are manned and alert, in spite of the terrible conditions prevailing in their lowlands. If need be, King Achardus will rally the timberlords from Firedrake Water. Their thanes and stump-jumpers fill their bellies with venison and wildfowl rather than dearly priced bread, and they’re in fighting trim despite the Wolf’s Breath. It’s only in the valley of the River Malle and in the large coastal cities that folk are starving. Now, it seems to me that we’ve already missed our best opportunity to strike at Didion. We should have been poised to come at them from both sea and land if they refused to accept the Edict of Sovereignty.”
“The King’s Grace deemed such a course too expensive,” Conrig said, smiling without humor.
“Of course he did,” Skellhaven said bitterly. “Same reason Ingo and me never get the brass we need to do a proper job patrolling the northern sealanes! The king won’t raise taxes on the rich merchants and trader-lords who curry his favor.”
