Ironcrown Moon Read online

  As it happened, I was spared the unwelcome task by none other than Queen Ullanoth, who had scried the little boys from a distance with the powerful moonstone sigil named Subtle Loophole. After confirming her discovery, she did not hesitate to tell Conrig the truth about the twins. She advised the dismayed king to keep the matter secret, continue pressing for a change in the law of succession… and beget still more offspring. In appreciation of the Conjure-Queen’s wholehearted pledge of silence, Conrig doubled the annual benefice already vouchsafed to her loyal but needy little realm in exchange for magical services rendered.

  Thus it appeared, as the fateful summer of 1133 began, that most of the problems that had threatened to undermine Conrig Ironcrown and his fledgling Sovereignty were well under control. The realm of Cathra enjoyed unprecedented prosperity. Thanks in part to my own underhanded activities, there was a welcome respite in the intrigues and machinations of the Lords of the Southern Shore. High Queen Risalla was happily pregnant again. Didion’s fractious robber-barons were quiet, licking their wounds following yet another failed small insurrection by Prince Somarus. Embittered Tarn seemed finally resigned to its vassal status and paid its exorbitant taxes without a murmur. The Continental nations had apparently shelved their expansionist schemes for the time being and were content to engage in orderly trade. Even the Dawntide Salka monsters were lying low, not having raided the shore settlements of Moss for over a year, thanks to fierce storms created by Conjure-Queen Ullanoth and a sharp retaliatory strike on the islands by the Sovereign’s navy under Lord Admiral Hartrig Skellhaven.

  I myself was a contented man that year, celebrating my twentieth birthday and entry into adulthood on the second day of Blossom Moon.

  As part of the great Summer Solstice festival a few weeks later, I was initiated into knighthood together with fifteen other armigers from all parts of Cathra, becoming Sir Deveron Austrey. We received the accolade at the traditional ceremony at noon on Midsummer Eve. To my surprise, I was not made a simple Bachelor like the others but was created a Knight Banneret of the Royal Household in recognition of my confidential services to the Crown. The commander’s honors included a velvet purse containing a hundred gold double-marks, twice the boon vouchsafed to the Knights Bachelor; a smallish fortified manor house called Buttonoaks with a freehold of six hundred goodly acres, situated in the rolling hills below Swan Lake, which was supposed to provide me with a decent income and a place to live when I was not needed at the palace; and the services of two armigers rather than one, together with an apprentice windvoice who would ostensibly enable me to communicate with my superiors via the arcane network of Zeth Brethren. (My own windtalents were, of course, a state secret.)

  After the dubbing ceremony, High King Conrig kindly suggested that I quit the court for several weeks and visit my new demesne, which lay less than three days’ easy journey to the north. With the realm at peace and likely to remain so for some time to come, the king anticipated no immediate need for my particular services.

  I agreed to the idea eagerly and made ready to leave at once, glad of the chance to avoid the elaborate Solstice banquet and the many entertainments that would take place over the next several days. I found the pomp and splendor of court festivities tedious. In my role of Royal Intelligencer, I often moved among the great ones of the Sovereignty; but I had been born a commoner of low estate, the son of a palace harnessmaker, and preferred more modest pleasures.

  I invited a close friend, Sir Gavlok Whitfell, to accompany me on my tour of inspection. He was another who esteemed the simple life and was glad of a chance to spend time in the country. Together with our youthful attendants, Gavlok and I left Gala Blenholme city along about the sixth hour on Solstice Eve, heading north toward the Swan Lake region. My armigers Val and Wil, and my windvoice Vra-Mattis, newly come to the palace from Vanguard and Blackhorse Duchies and Zeth Abbey respectively, were still unfamiliar to me. But they all seemed to be biddable lads and I looked forward to getting to know them better.

  I was in a fine humor, anticipating exploration of my manor in the company of congenial men. For a short time at least, I would answer to no master but myself.

  Chapter One

  The great outdoor feast in the Gala Palace gardens had come to its conclusion by the tenth hour of Solstice Eve. While servitors dismantled the banquet boards, rearranged the chairs and benches, and laid out the hardwood dancing floor with its flower-decked standards and strings of twinkling lanterns, the throng of highborn guests slipped away to chambers of ease inside Gala Palace to refresh themselves before the music began.

  In the royal retirement room adjacent to the great hall, High Queen Risalla sat at a dressing table enduring the attentions of her personal maid, who was rearranging her hair. The Sovereign himself rested on a padded long chair, seeming to be lost in deep thought. He had hardly exchanged a dozen words with the queen since they had left the gardens. The room was warm and he wore only his black undertunic, hose, and soft ankle boots, having shed his ornate overrobe of black-tissue velvet with white-gold ornamentation. His valet was busy daubing spirits of wine on a grease spot on one of the sleeves.

  “Sire,” the queen said, “I have a special request to make of you.”

  Conrig frowned absently. “What is it, madam?” He had significant concerns of his own this evening, following a brief confidential talk with Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook towards the end of the feast. And there was also Ullanoth’s impending visitation…

  “I’m concerned about our children. With so many special events going on today, I had no time to look in on them. Your Reverend Brother dosed the boys with a physick he declared would surely cure them of their cattarh, and it’s true that Bramlow and Corodon seemed well on the road to recovery yesterday. But I’m worried about little Orry. He’s so much more delicate than the others.”

  “Send a page to inquire how the lad does,” the preoccupied king said, only half-listening.

  Risalla waved the maid away, rose from her stool, and came to stand beside her husband. She was a woman of five-and-twenty whose face often seemed bland and plain in repose; but when she was animated, as now, her cornflower-blue eyes glowed with a disconcerting vigor. For the festivities she was attired in a high-waisted gown that revealed nothing of her six-month pregnancy. It was made of violet silk, embroidered about the low neckline with a pattern of vine leaves picked out in gold thread. A chain supporting a single large diamond pendant hung at her throat. Her honey-colored hair was dressed in a high coil of braids adorned with tiny twinkling sprays of gold wire and amethyst brilliants. A delicate golden diadem, yet to be pinned into place, waited on the dressing table.

  “No, husband,” she said firmly. “Sending a page won’t do. I insist on going to the nursery myself, before Orrion and the others are put to bed. Do come with me! You haven’t visited the children all week.”

  “It won’t be long before the dancing begins,” Conrig objected. “We have to step out first, as well you know. And after that we must prepare for the special visitation of the Queen of Moss.”

  Risalla’s lips tightened in determination. “The housemen are only beginning to put up the lanterns around the dance ground. There’s ample time.” She took his hand, drawing him to his feet. “Surely the Prince Heritor of Cathra is deserving of your sovereign attention.”

  Something flickered in Conrig’s dark eyes. But then he let a slow, wintry smile soften his face. He was a tall man and well built, still youthful in appearance at thirty years of age, fine-featured with a short beard and hair the color of ripe wheat. The famous iron crown, originally the rusty top hoop on a small cask of tarnblaze but now polished and given a handsome blue-heat finish, lay unobtrusively on his brow.

  “Dear madam, you defeat me once again. We’ll surprise the little rascals at their supper, and I don’t doubt that we’ll find all of them in good fettle, save for their disappointment at having to miss the Solstice celebration.” He said to the valet, “Trey, summon my escort. And
carry on scraping off that splash of gravy while I’m gone.”

  “Thank you, sire—dearest husband.” Risalla spoke with every evidence of humble diffidence before adding in a drier tone, “After all, it’s not as though the dancing could begin without us. And Conjure-Queen Ullanoth is a very patient woman… or so I’ve heard.”

  Conrig Wincantor, Sovereign of High Blenholme, stood with his wife outside the closed door to the royal nursery. A look of contained chagrin stiffened his features. Shrieks of childish laughter, furious shouts from an adult female, and the sounds of smashing crockery were audible through the thick oaken planking. The household knights of the royal escort kept straight faces with difficulty, while the two palace guards on duty in the corridor came to attention and smote their polished cuirasses in salute.

  Inside the nursery, there was a jarring thud and someone began to scream hysterically. A shrill voice cried, “I’ll catch him!”

  “Oh, my,” Queen Risalla murmured, with a sidelong glance at the king.

  Conrig scowled and addressed the senior door guard. “What the devil is going on in there, Sergeant Mendos?”

  “I ‘spect it’s the monkey, Your Grace,” said the guardsman, his countenance wooden. “Little Prince Bramlow commanded that it join them for supper. Viscountess Taria’s abed today with a megrim and the younger ladies and the nursemaids haven’t a lick o’ sense among the lot of ‘em, so they agreed. Silly wenches thought it’d be fun to see the wee beast sit down at table with the royal lads. Cheer ’em up, like, since they couldn’t attend the festival, I said it was a bad idea—”

  “Bazekoy’s Bones!” growled the king. “Where’s the creature’s keeper?”

  “Gone away, sire. The young ladies made him leave. He didn’t want to let the monkey off its chain, y’see, and Their Graces insisted.”

  “Fetch the stupid cullion,” Conrig snapped. “I’ll teach him to tend to his duty!” He hauled the door open and entered the nursery, followed by the queen. The knights of the royal escort tactfully remained in the corridor.

  The large suite of rooms housing the royal children was illuminated by mellow twilight entering through open casement windows. On a food-splattered but otherwise empty table in the center of the supper area stood a sturdy boy some four years of age: Prince Bramlow, the oldest son of Conrig and Risalla. He was barefoot, wearing a red nightrobe as befitted an acolyte of Zeth, and held a bunched tablecloth in his hands as he stared keenly up at the unlit iron chandelier overhead.

  A monkey the size of a large house cat sat on one of the candle arms. It clutched a bowl of strawberries and chittered with evil glee as it pelted the human inhabitants of the room with well-aimed pieces of fruit. The floor around the table was littered with capsized furniture, broken plates, cups, spoons, and scattered cushions—all commingled in a soggy mass of spilt porridge, slices of bread, mashed berries, and a pool of milk spreading from a cracked pitcher.

  Two very young ladies-in-waiting huddled together behind a wooden settle, weeping, their fine clothes rumpled and splashed with berry juice. A third noblewoman, somewhat older, stood with her back to the far wall. The giggling two-year-old boy struggling in her arms was Prince Heritor Orrion, who seemed to be in good health. His twin brother Corodon jumped up and down and squealed with laughter. A pair of nursemaids approached the table, glaring up at the monkey. One maid brandished a broom and the other held a clothes basket at the ready.

  “Here goes!” Bramlow cried out to them, shaking the tablecloth he held. The piece of fabric billowed, soared from his hands like a living thing, and wrapped itself neatly about the simian vandal, who tumbled into the waiting basket with a muffled howl. The two younger princes clapped their hands and cheered. Bramlow hopped off the table, bowed formally to the king and queen, and stood there grinning as the triumphant nursemaids carried the struggling captive out of the room. The unencumbered ladies-in-waiting made deep curtseys and waited, their faces now full of dread. The woman holding Prince Orrion set him on his feet at a gesture from the queen.

  Risalla said, “Nalise, Erminy, Vedrea, you may leave us. Wait outside until you’re summoned.” The ladies fled, closing the door behind them, and the queen regarded her sons with a sad expression. “You children have been very wicked.”

  “Yes, Mama,” the three of them chorused. The younger boys looked frightened and stood close together, hand in hand. They were not identical: Prince Heritor Orrion was slightly smaller than his twin brother, plain-featured and sandy-haired like Bramlow, while Corodon had his father’s striking good looks and hair so fair it shone like silver.

  “Wicked,” Conrig repeated in a terrible soft voice. “But especially you, Bramlow. And you know why.”

  The older boy lifted his chin. “Yes, sire. It was bad to use talent to catch the monkey. But—”

  “Only an ordained Brother of Zeth, dedicated to the service of the realm and pledged to harm no human person, may use overt forms of windtalent. A child who uses overt talent for vain or silly reasons commits a serious sin.” Conrig’s voice deepened and Bramlow winced. “A royal child who dares to exhibit overt talent in front of others, reminding them that one of our ancestors tainted the blood by mating with a nonhuman, comes very close to committing treason. Even though you’re still too young to go to Zeth Abbey and begin your arcane studies, you are old enough to know right from wrong in this important matter.”

  The boy dropped to his knees on the dirty floor. “I’m sorry, sire. Really, really sorry.”

  “You will be punished, Bramlow. For one week, you’ll remain alone in your room, with only bread and milk to eat. A novice Brother will guard you. You are forbidden to windspeak Uncle Stergos or any other talented person, neither may you scry or perform any of the other kinds of subtle magic that are usually allowed to you. The watching Brother will know if you disobey.”

  “I—I promise I’ll be good.” Tears gleamed on the four-year-old’s face. “Please don’t punish the monkey!”

  “The animal will be confined to its cage for a sennight,” said the king, “and its keeper will receive a sound thrashing. Keep in mind that it is your fault that they suffer. Now retire to your room and pray for forgiveness until the midnight sun touches the horizon. Then go to bed.”

  “Yes, sire.” Bramlow rose up, bowed, and trudged away into an inner chamber.

  When he was gone the queen spoke to the twins. “It was very wrong of you to ask the ladies to bring in the monkey without its chain and collar. A monkey isn’t a person. It can’t be trusted to behave. Do you understand this now?”

  Corodon smiled slyly. “Bram said it be great fun. It was!”

  “But wrong.” Orrion’s face was solemn. “We sorry, Mama.”

  Queen Risalla gathered the boys to her, kissing them. “How do you feel today? Do you still cough and sniffle?”

  “No, Mama. All well now.” Corodon beamed.

  And did you eat supper before the monkey spoiled the food?“

  “Some porridge,” Orrion mumbled.

  “Monkey took strawberries,” Corodon said. “We didn’t get none.”

  “Didn’t get any” the queen corrected him. She rose to her feet. “The ladies will make you milksops to eat in bed. No strawberries for you tonight. That will be your punishment. Now bid your father good night.”

  Conrig lifted and embraced each boy gravely, looking deeply into their eyes before kissing them. The infinitesimal glint of talent was imperceptible to him, as it was to the Zeth Brethren and every other adept save Conjure-Queen Ullanoth and possibly Snudge—who’d never said a word about it, curse him!

  Talent. That blessing and curse was present in all three of his offspring. But Risalla was once again with child, and if God pleased, Conrig would know tonight if the unborn was a normal-minded heir and the Sovereignty secure.

  Much later, as the time of Ullanoth’s visitation approached, Conrig and Risalla waited in the king’s private sitting room in the royal apartments. The draperies were drawn against
the still-bright sky, but open casements admitted both cool air and the sounds of laughter and dance music rising from the gardens. Risalla had changed into a summer nightrobe of fine primrose-colored lawn and reclined on a cushioned couch. The hypnagogic draft prepared by Vra-Stergos, which she had swallowed only a few minutes earlier, was already making her drowsy.

  “I still don’t see why this examination is necessary.” The queen did not bother to hide her resentment. “You required no such thing of me when I was pregnant with the other children.”

  “Ullanoth has fashioned a new spell,” Conrig prevaricated. “It will not only tell us the sex of our new child, but also whether or not it has talent.”

  “Talent!” R’isalla’s tone was uncommonly peevish as she drifted between wakefulness and sleep and her usual invincible self-control dissolved. “What does it matter if this babe shares poor Bramlow’s arcane abilities? You have your precious heir to the throne in Orrion, and there is always Coro in case… in case…” Her eyes closed, but she gave a start and was wide awake again. “In case of misfortune—may heaven forfend, I don’t see why I must sleep during this procedure, either. Why shouldn’t I know what Ullanoth does to me and to the child in my womb? I hate the notion of her casting a spell on us! I hate her, God forgive me, though I truly know not why.”

  Her vehemence startled Conrig. He was fairly certain that she was unaware of the long-standing liaison between him and the sorceress, and the queen’s temperament was ordinarily so coolly dutiful and tranquil that she seemed as incapable of jealousy as she was of sexual passion. In contrast to his mercurial first wife Maudrayne Northkeep, whom Conrig had adored until he came to believe that she could not give him children, Risalla Mallburn kept close custody of her emotions. It had never occurred to him to ask if she loved him; he deemed it sufficient that she was gently mannered, reasonably attractive, intelligent, fertile, and a princess royal of Cathra’s traditional antagonist, the vassal nation of Didion.